<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>And It Must Follow by Vellaen</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27978891">And It Must Follow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vellaen/pseuds/Vellaen'>Vellaen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Persona 5, Persona Series</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Darkest Timeline, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Families of Choice, Financial Issues, Identity Issues, Isolation, Japanese Mafia, Loneliness, Persona 5 Spoilers, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, Post-Time Skip, Self-Esteem Issues, So much depression, office politics, unreliable narrators</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:41:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>42,840</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27978891</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vellaen/pseuds/Vellaen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Akira Kurusu’s year on probation at Shujin Academy was… eventful, to say the least. A student got arrested for assaulting the volleyball coach. That same volleyball coach got arrested for rape. A third-year’s father died on live television.</p><p>Then, Akira had to watch the stumbling drunk who had falsely accused him of assault get elected Prime Minister. The cherry on top? When all was said and done, a “clerical error” in the court back home left him with a completed sentence, as opposed to an expunged record.</p><p>The world is not as it should be. It’s filled with distortion, and ruin can no longer be avoided.</p><p>For those who oppose fate and desire change? Ten years have passed… and now, it may be too late.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kurusu Akira/Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi, Persona 5 Protagonist &amp; Sakura Futaba, Persona 5 Protagonist/Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>115</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Old Wounds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>This above all: to thine own self be true</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>And it must follow, as the night the day</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong> <em>Thou canst not then be false to any man.</em> </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong><em>-</em>Hamlet <em>(Act 1, Scene iii)<br/></em></strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p><strong>3/25/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Daytime</strong><br/><br/></p><p>“<em>The state funeral of Prime Minister Masayoshi Shido concluded just over an hour ago. While dignitaries from around the world depart in the stream of motorcades you can see behind me, the people of Japan are not so fortunate as those token representatives of our friends and allies. Three weeks remain in the month-long period of national mourning that has been declared. The citizens of our great nation continue to grapple with the loss of our inspirational leader, the man who often called himself the ‘steady hand on the helm of state.’ At nine years and eighty-eight days, he was Japan’s longest-serving Prime Minister</em>.</p><p>“<em>With me now for a live interview is one of the men responsible for filling that void. A man who, despite his youth, is regarded by many as the heir apparent to the legacy of the United Future Party</em>—”</p><p>Akira Kurusu was not in the habit of paying attention to the news. The television in Café Leblanc was often tuned to one collection of talking heads or another, but years of exposure had accustomed him to the sound. Most days, he would pay no more mind to the voices from the TV than he would the hiss of the percolators on the counter, or the ticking of the clock on the wall. It was easy to filter out; simple background noise.</p><p>Of course, it wasn’t every day that he watched an entire nation mourn the death of the man who had nearly ruined his life.</p><p>The man he’d met as an anonymous, stumbling sot, who had managed to single-handedly uproot every aspect of Akira’s life with a false charge of assault, later revealed to be a prominent politician. But if that had been bad, worse was yet to come. He had watched that same man rise to accept the highest office in Japan, lauded as a hero and savior for a country in crisis. Out of the entire year Akira had spent on probation in Tokyo, the night he had seen Shido take the stage as Prime Minister with sanctimonious charm and false humility was the worst by far.</p><p>If it had happened right after his arrival, and not after nearly eight torturous months at Shujin Academy…? He would never have thought it at the time, but Akira had been lucky. Eight months of apparent misery had, it turned out, given him a few ragged edges to cling to. And all that time spent chipping away at the cold reserve of his guardian and host had revealed just enough of the Sojiro Sakura who Akira had since come to know as a mentor and surrogate father to get him through the rest of the year… if only just.</p><p>All that aside, after years of seeing the man make headline news as Prime Minister, Akira had thought himself inured to the mere mention of Masayoshi Shido’s name. His conviction for assault in the first place had been enough to stamp out most of Akira’s idealism. He had survived by following Sojiro’s advice to keep his head down and quietly serve out his probation. But when incompetent bureaucracy compounded the cultural stigma of a criminal record and stymied his prospects in education and employment even after that, by rights he should have turned into a hardened cynic. It was ironic, damn near perverse, that it was his tormentor’s death that had proven that not to be the case. So here he was, affected in a way Akira had never expected: lamenting that he had now lost forever any chance for getting justice from Shido. Some small part of him, beaten and withered and worn, had still held on to hope.</p><p>It hurt.</p><p>The newscast went on in blissful ignorance. An attractive, dark-haired anchorwoman was now speaking to a smartly-dressed man who looked as though he couldn’t be much older than Akira himself. “—<em>though he is currently serving as acting prime minister, Interior Minister Yoshida has released a statement indicating he would not be putting forth his candidacy, citing his ongoing policy disagreements with UFP leadership. Do you believe this provides you with an opening, given the recent departures of other prominent</em>—”</p><p>One sound that never failed to draw Akira’s attention was the bell above the café’s entrance. It was a welcome noise; Leblanc was many things, though busy was rarely one of them. Eager to put his maudlin musings on hold for the sake of a customer, Akira donned the well-practiced mask of service as he turned to greet whoever had arrived. When he recognized the slim figure in the doorway, he couldn’t stop his face from shifting the imperceptible fraction from simple courtesy to honest welcome.</p><p>“Yoshizawa-san, good afternoon. What’ll you have?”</p><p>The slender redhead, impeccably polite as ever, offered him a bow as the door rang shut. “Sorry to bother you again so soon.” She rose from her bow, but didn’t meet his gaze, eyes shrouded by her bangs. Her hands fidgeted with the straps of the small gym bag in her hands. “I suppose, since I’m here… One house blend? Please.”</p><p>“It’s no bother,” Akira said as he set out a fresh cup and saucer. “Busy morning?”</p><p>“You could say that,” the young woman replied, hanging her bag on the back of the counter seat furthest from the door. She was dressed in dark yoga pants, sneakers, and a large hooded sweatshirt to ward off the late March chill. Her long hair was tied up in a ponytail with a simple red ribbon. “I’ve been placing flyers in all the local schools and public gyms. I’m trying to recruit more students, signing up as many classes as I can. It makes for some long days.”</p><p>She looked almost as tired as she sounded, he noted from the corner of his vision. The bags under her eyes were almost as dark as her leggings. “I can imagine.” He carefully set a steaming cup, full to the brim, on the edge of the counter in front of her. “Liquid stamina, nonfat cream, no sugar.”</p><p>“Thank you,” she said, offering him a wan smile before taking a sip. “I’m obviously here far too often. You don’t even pretend to ask anymore.”</p><p>“Not at all. Just part of the service for our regulars. Are you sure I can’t get you a plate of curry, as well? You are my lunch rush today, it appears.”</p><p>He could see her bite the inside of her bottom lip as she set her cup down. “I wish I could, but…” she trailed off, casting another furtive glance at the bag hanging behind her shoulder. “I just don’t have… time today. I have a class starting at two.”</p><p>It was just past noon. Given that he had helped her move in when she first arrived in Yongen-Jaya six months prior, they were both well aware of the fact that her studio was a three-minute walk from the café. Akira let the comment pass, grabbing a clean cloth from the rack in the kitchen and tossing it over his shoulder.</p><p>He turned towards the television, letting Yoshizawa nurse her drink in peace while he tried not to stare. She’d been lithe and athletic for as long as he’d known her, but beyond the dark circles under her eyes, her complexion was too pale for even her makeup to hide. The oversized hoodie made it difficult to be sure, but her cheeks were hollow in a way he was sadly familiar with.</p><p>“—<em>reassuring to investors, which I’m sure our financial desk would love to ask you about when the quarterly reports are delivered later this week, but—</em>“</p><p>Ah. With the hubbub about Shido, he had almost managed to forget. It was the 25<sup>th</sup>; by now, everyone in Yongen was keeping a wary eye on their calendars for the first of the new month. Something half-remembered twinged in the back of his mind. With a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, he brought out his phone. A quick text was followed by an even quicker response. He nodded to himself, and went to the stove.</p><p>Yoshizawa jumped a little when a plate of curry slid across the counter in front of her. “Kurusu-san? I didn’t—”</p><p>“I know you’re in a hurry,” he said, countering her given excuse. “I can box it up if you like.”</p><p>Once again, she looked away, glancing towards what Akira was reasonably certain to be the empty purse in her gym bag. That was another look he was familiar with; such was life in Yongen-Jaya at the end of the month, these past few years. “I’m sorry, I can’t…”</p><p>“It’s on the house, Yoshizawa-san,” he said gently. “Happy birthday.”</p><p>Her red eyes went almost comically wide, even as her lower lip trembled. “How…?”</p><p>“Just part of the service for our regulars,” he said with a wink. She managed a watery laugh, and Akira considered that sound well-worth a plate of curry, even one made with Sojiro’s recipe.</p><p>“I’m flattered,” Yoshizawa said, taking a deep breath through her nose as she mixed a spoonful of rice, sauce, and vegetables. “I suppose I am here almost every morning.”</p><p>“Oh? I hadn’t noticed. The place is so busy, you know,” he said, waving at the empty booths. “It’s hard to keep track.”</p><p>She swallowed, stuck her tongue out at him, and then took another bite. Such were priorities when given a plate of Leblanc curry; her manners were better than most, under the circumstances.</p><p>“Well-argued,” he replied, fighting back a smile.</p><p>“I should be more appreciative that you’re open in time for me to stop by before my morning classes,” she said, between bites. “I don’t know how I’d make it through the day without… this place.” Her eyebrows pinched thoughtfully as she chewed. She swallowed again, just before her eyes went wide with startlement. “Oh. You’re still open in the evenings as well, aren’t you? Some of the students in my six-to-eight class mention heading here when they leave. And there I was, thoughtlessly complaining about my long days when I walked in? Now I feel terrible.”</p><p>“No need to apologize. I don’t mind the hours, to be honest; I’ve had worse jobs. And it keeps me out of trouble.”</p><p>She opened her mouth as if to reply, but reconsidered, taking a sip of her coffee instead. When she set her cup back down, her expression was still hesitant, but she seemed to visibly steel herself before saying, “So, was this place your secret, then? The remedy to your misspent youth?”</p><p>He smiled. “You’ve found me out. I’m well and truly reformed now.” His reply set her back at ease, enough to try and hide her smile behind her spoon. It was too good an opportunity for him to pass up. “Managing a café doesn’t leave me much time for the ivory smuggling.”</p><p>She nearly choked on her curry, hiding her laughter behind her hand. “Oh, my goodness! How do you even remember that, Senpai?”</p><p>“It was certainly one of the more creative rumors from our time at Shujin. Speaking of which, ‘senpai’? Really, you’re a respectable businesswoman now, Yoshizawa-san.”</p><p>“Sorry, it just slipped out. Nostalgia, I suppose. But I could say the same to you. Since we’re both respectable residents of Yongen-Jaya now…” she took another drink of coffee, glancing up at him over the rim of her cup. “It would… not be inappropriate for you to call me Kasumi. If you’d like.”</p><p>Akira swiped a cloth across the counter, stalling with idle action even as he ducked his head to hide any chance of her seeing the internal debate that statement inspired. “The same goes for you. Perhaps when it’s just the two of us, Kasumi-san,” he said, glancing up with a small smile he hoped was sufficiently roguish. “I wouldn’t want to make the other regulars jealous, after all.”</p><p>“That would be troublesome, wouldn’t it, Akira-san?” She looked down, not quite successful in hiding her blush as she studied her emptying plate. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but I was terribly relieved to stumble across a familiar face when I moved in. You and Sakura-san were both so helpful when I was opening the studio, as well.” She offered him a sitting bow. “I can’t properly say how grateful I am.”</p><p>“That was all Sojiro, really,” he replied with a dismissive wave. “Making coffee and curry are one thing, but licensing forms and business permits? I may watch over the place, but he’s the one with all the local connections.”</p><p>“Don’t sell yourself short. Not only did you find those surplus mats from the local gym for me, I still don’t know how we managed to get them up that tiny staircase. You were a magician helping me move in, both at my studio and my apartment.”</p><p>He shrugged. “An old friend from high school needed my help. Anything less wouldn’t be neighborly.”</p><p>She smiled. “All the same… thank you. How is Sakura-san, by the way?”</p><p>Without too much effort, Akira again managed to maintain a neutral expression. “Hanging in there. He keeps threatening to come back, worried his little break is chasing away all his regulars.”</p><p>Her expression shifted, a hint of sympathy inching into her smile. It would seem his poker face wasn’t what it used to be. But she didn’t press, only taking another slow sip of her cooling coffee. True to form, her plate was already empty. He was sorely tempted to offer her another.</p><p>The ongoing interview on the television filled the lull in their conversation. “<em>—address concerns from the public? While psychotic breakdowns and mental shutdowns have dropped steadily in official statistics released by your department, many independent analysts have said that idyllic delusions are actually becoming more common, and might even be—</em>“</p><p>“She’s a very capable interviewer, isn’t she?”</p><p>Akira’s jaw worked as he nodded. “You don’t usually see that on SNN these days.”</p><p>Yoshizawa focused more closely on the broadcast, her eyes narrowing. “I can’t say why, but she seems familiar.”</p><p>“She was a student at Shujin with us. She was in my class, actually.”</p><p>Yoshizawa blinked in surprise. “Really?”</p><p>“Yeah. I sat right behind her all that year, as a matter of fact.”</p><p>“Oh, my.” Her smile turned teasing. “Is that why you always have the news on in Leblanc?”</p><p>Akira replied with his best deadpan look, angling his head to eye her right over the top of his glasses. “Yes, you’ve discovered my celebrity crush. I’m a lost cause for state television anchors with dyed black hair.”</p><p>“That’s too bad. I never thought…” she trailed off, her brow furrowing. “Wait. Dyed hair? You don’t mean that’s…?”</p><p>He nodded. “Yep. No way you’d see her on that channel these days, otherwise. Superiority of true Japanese heritage, and all that.”</p><p>Yoshizawa blinked as the faces on the screen switched, able to manage only an uncharacteristically ineloquent, “Huh.”</p><p>“—<em>I can hardly fault anyone who voices concerns under the current circumstances. But even beyond the two years I’ve spent pursuing these matters as an elected official, I needn’t remind anyone that I have nearly a decade of experience in law enforcement to</em>—”</p><p>“Would you like a refill?”</p><p>Yoshizawa glanced down at her empty cup, then up at the clock in the corner. “That’s… very tempting,” she said, casting a final, forlorn look at her empty plate. “But I have just enough time to post some more flyers around Yongen before my afternoon class. The grocery and clinic owners were kind enough to consent when I called around this morning.”</p><p>“I didn’t miss a call from you, did I?” he wondered, glancing at his phone. “Feel free to redecorate the walls here, before you go.”</p><p>“No, well… I mean, I…” she stumbled over her words, looking away. “You’ve been so helpful already, these past few months, I didn’t want to impose…”</p><p>“Don’t be silly. Helping you advertise is just good business sense, on my part: curry makes great comfort food after your coach makes you cry at practice.”</p><p>It was her turn to give him a flat look. It was a creditable approximation, even without glasses. “That’s just mean, Akira-san; I’m not coaching for competitions, I’m teaching. It’s entirely different.”</p><p>“I’ll take your word for it. But I’ve never forgotten a certain young gymnast and the ruthless training regimen inflicted upon her unsuspecting charge.”</p><p>“You <em>asked</em> me to teach you how I was able to move so gracefully.”</p><p>“That’s true. It takes a lot to make catching a stray balloon look impressive, but you sure tried your best to make me regret my curiosity. After all, I was just a humble small-town ivory smuggler and juvenile delinquent, adrift in the big city.”</p><p>“I’d been practicing competitively since I was six. I didn’t expect you to try to follow the same exercises.” She folded her arms and turned away, which did nothing to hide her pout as she added in an undertone, “And I wasn’t <em>that</em> bad.”</p><p>“Pretty sure I’m still sore from it, actually. Why do you think I ended up making a living behind a counter?”</p><p>“It certainly isn’t your customer service skill,” she huffed. “You’re hardly infirm now; the equipment you helped me move in was heavy! And even in high school, you were the one who kept coming back for more practice. By the end of the year, you could even keep up sometimes. I was almost impressed.”</p><p>“I’ve always been stubborn. But all kidding aside, you were a good teacher. <em>Are</em> a good teacher, I’ll bet.”</p><p>Her smile returned, ever so faintly. “I’m just happy to share a bit of what I’ve learned over the years. My own sensei, Coach Hiraguchi, taught me so much; it’d be a shame to keep letting it all go to waste.” She glanced away, looking wistful. “And so here I am. A makeshift studio gym in a back-alley warehouse. A few girls learning tumbles, flips and some basic routines. Back when we met, it’s not where I expected Kasumi Yoshizawa to be in ten years… but it is mine.”</p><p>Akira was thankful she wasn’t looking his way. Not even his best poker face could survive a statement like that. He swallowed, forcing his jaw to unclench. “Your students are lucky to have you,” he managed to say, before the silence became notable.</p><p>She smiled, stealing another glance at the clock. “They won’t have me at all if I don’t get going.” She stood, briefly digging through her gym bag to produce one of her flyers. “I'll let you decide where to put this up, if you like. Thank you for the coffee and curry, Akira-san, and the conversation. I haven’t thought about those days in a long time, but they really are some good memories.”</p><p>“Thanks for coming. And…” he steeled himself. “Happy birthday, Sumire-san.”</p><p>“Thank you,” she replied, her smile never even flickering as she offered him one last wave over her shoulder. The door to Leblanc swung closed behind her.</p><p>Hidden by the sound of the bell, Akira sighed, running a hand through his hair as he muttered a curse under his breath.</p><p>Before the sound of the bell had even faded, a more artificial chime prompted Akira to bring out his phone. A cursory glance around confirmed that the café had not filled with customers while he was otherwise engaged, so he opened the new notification on his LINE app.<br/><br/></p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Well, that wasn’t awkward at all.<br/><br/></p><p>Akira saw Futaba’s chat message and snorted. He might have known that Sojiro’s adopted daughter was listening in on him, especially after his out-of-the-blue text message. The technophile had a decidedly non-standard definition of privacy, but Akira knew her heart was in the right place. And given her circumstances, he was willing to tolerate a certain amount of Big Brother treatment. Or Little Sister, as it were. He shook his head and swept out a reply.<br/><br/></p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Thanks for the quick response. I wanted to be sure I remembered the right date.</p><p><strong>Alibaba: </strong>Yeah, because THAT was totally what I was referring to.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> I see you’ve renamed me. Again.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> You know I know you’re changing the subject. Fine, be that way.</p><p><strong>Alibaba: </strong>Complain once you’ve set your password to something secure.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Would it stop you if I did?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> No.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Don’t think we won’t talk about this. Don’t make me channel Sojiro on you.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> You aren’t physically capable of the baritone. Or the goatee.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Neither are you.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> …the point is conceded.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Slow day? You don’t usually keep an ear on me anymore.</p><p><strong>Alibaba: </strong>Stopped a DDOS during the memorial broadcast. Bored now.</p><p><strong>Borerista: </strong>Anyone you know?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> China. Random noob, not government. Which surprised me, a little.<br/><br/></p><p>Masayoshi Shido had not endeared himself to many outside Japan. It had been one of Akira’s few comforts over the years; they may not have hated him for the same reasons, but it had been something to know Shido was not universally loved. Inside the country, that had been getting harder and harder to tell.<br/><br/></p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> You were wrong before, though.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> I usually am. Can you be more specific?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I still listen. If I don’t have something else to focus on. It keeps me calm.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> please don’t be mad</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> pleasepleasosrry<br/><br/></p><p>Akira didn’t even mutter a curse; he knew she’d hear it. Without hesitating, he closed the messaging app. A few well-practiced flicks of his nimble fingers later, and he had sent a request for a video call, holding his breath as the tone played waiting for a response.</p><p>To his relief, Futaba accepted the call without too much of a delay. That was a good sign, even if she was refusing to look at the screen once it connected. He could tell by the angle of the image that her smartphone was in its dock on her computer desk.</p><p>“It’s okay, Gadget,” he said gently. “I’m not mad. See?”</p><p>He could hear her fingers flying across her keyboard just off screen, but he saw her glance down, the reflections of her monitors prominent on the lenses of her glasses. He could just make out the wall of posters and otaku paraphernalia behind her in the dim light of her room, a frame to her face almost as familiar as her chin-length orange-dyed hair. She would probably ask him to trim it for her again soon, he noted.</p><p>“Sorry, ‘Kira.” She sniffled, and stopped typing two-handed just long enough to swipe at her nose with the back of a wrist; for a brief instant, the other was pecking away alone, still faster than anyone else Akira had ever known to be able to type. “How do you even do that?”</p><p>“Do what?” he wondered.</p><p>“Make me feel better just by calling me that?”</p><p>He smirked. “Magic.”</p><p>“Stupid nicknames, making me feel things…” she grumbled halfheartedly.</p><p>“You started it. For the record, I am neither a cult leader nor a mass murderer.”</p><p>She snorted. “You’d be way more interesting if you were. No wonder you can’t get past G-rated flirting with Yoshizawa-san.”</p><p>Akira frowned. He knew this wasn’t what she had meant by wanting to talk with him, but there were times when Futaba couldn’t suppress her own need to deflect confrontation with jokes. “Can we load a save from the point where you were sorry for eavesdropping?” He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. For his part, sometimes he couldn’t stop himself from being defensively sarcastic.</p><p>Life had left them both with more than their share of scars.</p><p>“I’m not eavesdropping, I’m doing research,” she said. “I’m going to transcribe her visits to Leblanc and publish a josei light novel.”</p><p>“Ah.” He grinned. “Your latest plan to start our lives of wealth and luxury?”</p><p>“Nah. It’ll get banned by the Ministry for Cultural Preservation and we’ll end up frozen in carbonite.”</p><p>“It’d be that smutty? I thought you said I was a bad flirt.”</p><p>“No, they’d ban it to prevent anyone from being exposed to your ‘charm.’ Why would you think there’d be smut? I’ve taught you enough about the laws of the internet to know not to stick your dick in c—” she cut herself off, the sound of her persistent typing abruptly absent as she glanced down at her phone.</p><p>“I know you, of all people, didn’t mean that,” Akira said softly. He kept his voice low, both because he meant what he said, and needed to keep Futaba from hearing how angry he was, even so.</p><p>She closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths. “No, I didn’t.” Given what had happened to Futaba and her mother, none of their family would countenance anyone referring to Wakaba Isshiki as crazy. “Sorry,” she said.</p><p>“Apology accepted,” he replied.</p><p>The silence between them stretched. Nominally, the air between them was clear, but Futaba’s typing still did not resume. “You can’t let it go on like this, ‘Kira. It’s not fair to her. Or to you.”</p><p>It was his turn to look away. He studied the door to Leblanc, eyeing the “Closed” side of the sign hanging there, in silence.</p><p>“You know someone’s going to notice eventually,” she went on. He could hear the concern in her voice. “Someone who won’t hesitate to report her.”</p><p>For nearly a decade, Japan had been beset by a plague of inexplicable and seemingly random instances of psychotic breakdowns, mental shutdowns, and idyllic delusions. The Diet had passed laws requiring all citizens to report any observed victims of those phenomena to the Ministry of Mental Wellness. Futaba, whose own cyber-sleuthing had stumbled upon the fates of those who were turned over, had nearly broken down when she’d found out.</p><p>Masayoshi Shido’s Japan was not a great place to live, which Akira could have predicted with iron certainty ten years ago. He wished he could be as sure that the country without Shido was going to get much better.</p><p>“She had me fooled that whole year before we lost touch. Hell, Futaba, you were the one who figured it out in the first place, and that was just a few weeks ago. You even suggested that little experiment.”</p><p>“Yes, I’m aware, because as you know my memory isn’t eidetic or anything,” she said sullenly.</p><p>Akira sighed in frustration. “Yeah, I know I’m preaching to the choir. I also know you heard the results. Yoshizawa-san didn’t even bat an eyelash. So I’m friends with a girl who thinks she’s her dead sister, and she honestly can’t tell the difference if you call her by her own name. But what else can I do?” he asked. “We both know there’s no cure, and what the government’s doing sure as shit doesn’t qualify.”</p><p>Futaba’s face enlarged inside the frame of his smartphone, as she folded her arms on her desk and laid her head down upon them. “It’s not your job to save her, you know,” she said, so softly that even that close to her phone, the mic barely picked up her voice.</p><p>“I owe her,” he replied, as if that explained anything. Or everything. For him? Perhaps it did.</p><p>“You were friends in high school for one school term, and she’s been coming by for coffee a few times a week since moving to Yongen six months ago. The camera in the alley is pretty low-res, but I know <em>you</em> sure aren’t wearing any rings.”</p><p>“I said I owe her. With apologies to your novel,” he said, with a halfhearted smirk, “I wasn’t professing undying love.”</p><p>“Hey, <em>hikkikomori</em>, remember? All I know of love I learned from shoujo and hentai.”</p><p>“That explains so, so much…”</p><p>“Don’t sass an IT girl, or I’ll start streaming the good stuff to the TV in Leblanc.”</p><p>Akira shuddered. “I take your point. Though I will observe that even you don’t know how to fix an unplugged outlet remotely.”</p><p>“Yet,” she said, grinning.</p><p>He matched her smile. “I won’t put it past you. If you told me you’d programmed the percolators to sing ‘Daisy Bell’ just outside the range of human hearing, I wouldn’t deny it.”</p><p>“We’ve long agreed not to judge each other’s hobbies. I’m a mad scientist, and you pine after cute gymnasts who smiled at you back in high school.”</p><p>In lieu of making a denial that wouldn’t convince either of them, he propped his phone against the cash register so he could match her posture, crossing his arms on the counter and resting his chin atop them. He couldn’t reach out to ruffle her hair the way she liked, but he could at least show her how serious his expression was. “She wasn’t just ‘my friend in high school,’” he said, his voice quiet and deadly earnest. “She <em>was</em> my friend at Shujin.”</p><p>She nodded. That year was ancient history between the two of them. Battle scars, long-healed. Old wounds. Nothing else needed to be said.</p><p>Akira decided to say it anyway. “Sojiro and I were your reasons. But she was mine.”</p><p>Futaba was silent for a long moment. That was one topic on which neither of them had any jokes to speak of. “Maybe you should tell her that while you still can,” she said, at last.</p><p>He scoffed. “That’s the manga talking. You heard her, Gadget, but you didn’t see her. All I have to offer is coffee and curry, and even Sojiro’s recipe isn’t <em>that</em> good.”</p><p>She frowned, shifting awkwardly from her hunched posture to scratch the side of her face. “Money problems, you mean?”</p><p>“It’s that time of the month in Yongen.”</p><p>“Fuck,” she muttered, burying her face behind her arms. “I wish…”</p><p>“Don’t start,” he scolded her gently. “You did all you could back when this began.”</p><p>She pushed aside her glasses to rub at her eyes. “Yeah, two bank staffers that pled down to community service for fraudulent wire transfers, and one viral YouTube supercut of gangsters whining about having to use pen and paper and being generally bad at math. All in a day’s work for the great Alibaba, huh?”</p><p>“You just admitted that even you can’t do anything to something unplugged. I think this applies.”</p><p>“Tch,” she said, by way of acknowledgement. Unfortunately for Alibaba, gangsters were bad at math, but good at learning from their mistakes after being targeted by cyber-vigilantes. “You know, you worry about other people too much.”</p><p>Akira stared at his phone, one eyebrow creeping slowly upwards.</p><p>“What?” she said, scowling.</p><p>He smirked. “Hypocrite.”</p><p>Her scowl shifted as she stuck her tongue out at him. “Worrywart.”</p><p>“Recluse.”</p><p>“Romantic.”</p><p>The banter faltered as Akira burst into laughter. “I live in an attic above a café in Yongen-Jaya. How do I qualify as a romantic?”</p><p>“I know your browser history,” she reminded him flatly. “You’ve read more than a few of the links I send you. Coffee shop AUs for <em>days</em>. Besides, you and Sojiro renovated it when you moved back. So technically it’s a loft apartment now.”</p><p>“Did you get one of your sixty online degrees in pedantry?”</p><p>“I’m so going to hack into Tōdai and make one. Give me five minutes.”</p><p>He sat up, chuckling as he stretched his arms above his head. His back was getting stiff from sitting hunched over; he didn’t have a prayer of matching her stamina when it came to awkward postures. “I’ll leave you to it, then. And Futaba? Thanks.”</p><p>She blinked. “For someone so empathetic, you can be breathtakingly ignorant about yourself. You do remember this call started because <em>you</em> were trying to stop <em>me</em> from having a panic attack, right?”</p><p>“Funny how conversations with family can turn out, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Right. I’m going to hang up before you say anything else nauseatingly sappy.”</p><p>“All right, Gadget. See you at dinner?”</p><p>She nodded, attention back on her computer monitors and fingers tapping away once more. “Yeah. Sojiro is having one of his good days. Curry would be perfect.”</p><p>“I’ll text you before I close up.” Akira ended the call, glancing at the time as he locked his phone. The television, and through it the wider world beyond, droned away in the background.</p><p>“—<em>thanks again to Goro Akechi, Minister for Mental Wellness. Reporting live for SNN from Yasukuni Shrine in Chiyoda, this is Ann Takamaki.</em>”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Carrots and Sticks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>3/25/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Afternoon</strong><br/><br/></p><p>No sooner had the red LED above the camera lens turned off than Ann Takamaki was tearing out her earpiece. Blessed silence replaced the indignant squawking of her executive producer back at the studio. It’d probably buy her another lecture about respect and professional courtesy once she got back, but that was a problem for later. A much more urgent matter was walking away, attempting to escape at a pace that only looked calm and casual. She pursued, as fast as her heels and pencil skirt allowed. “Akechi-san!” she called, drawing more than a few looks from the scattered crowd outside the torii gates of Yasukuni Shrine.</p><p>A scandalously un-Japanese willingness to make a scene had its advantages. The shout stopped her target’s retreat, and a pair of penetrating brown eyes turned towards her. “Takamaki-san. I was under the impression that our interview had concluded.”</p><p>“This won’t take long.”</p><p>“While viewers might find your conversational style endearing, I’m afraid I don’t have time for any off-the-record remarks today. The cabinet is rather busy at the moment, as I’m sure you understand.”</p><p>Ann felt her jaw clench, but kept her face otherwise impassive. Too many people she spoke with were only interested in conversations with her blouse. Present company was a notable exception, but not because he was conscientious or composed. All Ann could detect was cold, calculating indifference. When it came to polite disdain, Goro Akechi reigned supreme. “I’m sure your colleagues wouldn’t dare proceed on any course without your input,” she offered. Every politician loved a little flattery.</p><p>“I’m afraid you’re overstating my importance," Akechi countered. "I am very nearly the most junior member of the administration, after all.”</p><p>Ann had seen enough of his interviews over the years to spot self-effacement when she saw it. “In seniority, maybe, but certainly not popularity.”</p><p>“My days as that sort of celebrity ended when I took office, Takamaki-san. Whatever you might think of the ruling party, I hope you give us more credit than thinking we govern based on instant polls on talk shows.”</p><p>“Of course not.” <em>That would imply you cared about public opinion at all,</em> she didn’t add. “Though as a representative of SNN, I’m glad to hear you still enjoy watching our afternoon lineup.”</p><p>The smile she received was certainly as telegenic as its owner’s reputation, but at the same time disquieting. It was like looking at a poorly-shot magazine cover: all the pieces were there, but she somehow knew that there was no affection in it meant for her. “They’ll always hold a special place in my heart,” Akechi replied. “But one might be led to wonder about your network’s priorities, given the nature of some of your questions earlier. Since you are, as you said, a representative of SNN.”</p><p>Ann could almost feel the ground shifting beneath her feet, but backing down now would be a tacit admission of just how close to the edge of her producer’s script she’d been tiptoeing during the live segment… and maybe she had gone just a <em>teensy</em> bit past that edge. The shouting in her ear had been annoying, but she’d never said it was unjustified. “If you’re referring to the bit about psychotic breakdowns, mental shutdowns, and idyllic delusions, I honestly hope you weren’t surprised. Even discounting your experience with the cases prior to your appointment, they’d fall into your portfolio as the Minister for Mental Wellness.”</p><p>“Oh, there’s no doubt of that,” he allowed, smile never changing, “I don’t question the topic’s relevance to me, personally or professionally. I just wonder about the wisdom of broaching it at the funeral of a national leader who worked tirelessly to protect the people from those very conditions.”</p><p>“Put that way, I don’t think you could make the topic more relevant.”</p><p>His smile tilted. “That could be said of most things that serve to incite panic.”</p><p>Ann didn’t flinch. “The best way to avoid panic is a well-informed public.”</p><p>“A quaint notion, if somewhat self-serving, as I imagine you regard yourself as one of the informers. I believe Machiavelli would say that your well-informed public is predominantly comprised of people who are remarkably easy to deceive.”</p><p>“That’s awfully pessimistic, coming from an elected representative.”</p><p>“I’m paraphrasing, of course. I only wish to point out that you and I share the responsibility of providing a measured, relevant discourse to the public at a time of national mourning and upheaval.”</p><p>“If any of my questions during the interview weren’t suitable for that, I’d love to hear why you don’t think so.”</p><p>Akechi cradled his chin with one hand, his smile replaced by a look of concern that almost felt sincere. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to impugn your professionalism. It’s merely my own opinion that the citizens of Japan are more interested in hearing about the accomplishments of the man they’re grieving than his unfinished business. I’ll even admit that I’m being self-serving myself to say so, since Prime Minister Shido was the leader of my political party.”</p><p>“Even if you’re right, that unfinished business you mention will still be there, Akechi-san. The citizens of Japan have waited ten years for an answer to the question of what, or who, is playing around with peoples’ heads. Tomorrow, the next day, or three weeks from now when the mourning period expires, they will still want answers, and solutions.”</p><p>“On that we are in full agreement, Takamaki-san. You, as well as your viewers, should rest assured that I will continue to devote my full attention to these matters. And you can quote me, at least on that count,” he said, once again donning his camera-ready smile.</p><p>Ann had interviewed hundreds of professionals, celebrities, and public figures in her career. Many had been less than enthusiastic to interact with her, for a boundless range of reasons, and politicians were always amongst the prickliest about their coverage. Within the media, the late Prime Minister had a reputation for being notoriously two-faced: composed, eloquent, and empathetic on camera, but acerbic and dismissive whenever he knew he could get away with it. How that man’s reputation had survived the era of omnipresent smartphones and social media gossip-mongers was a mystery for the ages.</p><p>She had known a few people like that, back in her modeling days. Pure performers, who could turn it on like they were flipping a switch and become anything or anyone they needed to be, and right back again as soon as the cameras weren’t pointed their way. Goro Akechi could not have been more different. This was a man who never turned “it” off… whatever “it” was.</p><p>The longer she spoke with him, the less certain Ann was that she even wanted to know.</p><p>Alas, her curiosity continued to win out. “You certainly know how important it is to maintain the public’s trust. Given such a firm resolve, would you be willing to answer one more question on the record? It relates directly to your previous comment.”</p><p>“Under those circumstances, I would consider it. Please, ask away.”</p><p>“Prime Minister Shido was unsparing in his efforts to stop the mental shutdowns and psychotic breakdowns. Are you willing to state unequivocally whether or not he was killed by such means himself?”</p><p>Akechi did not move. He did not smile. As far as Ann could perceive, he did not react at all. And yet some tiny, animal instinct in her hindbrain insisted that she had just encountered an existential threat. She felt a shiver work its way up and down her spine. Standing so near to Yasukuni’s gigantic First Torii, once the largest in all Japan, she wondered what kind of restless spirit had just cast its eyes upon her.</p><p>“Forgive me, Takamaki-san, but I’ll have to decline comment on that matter,” Akechi said, all pleasantness and grace. “Though I do admire your persistence.” He turned to leave, taking four deliberate, unhurried steps down the wide concrete path leading away from the shrine, while Ann remained frozen in place.</p><p>Akechi stopped and turned back, looking thoughtful. “You know, our present location has had me contemplating an old foreign saying, trying to translate its meaning. Something about ‘<em>whistling past a graveyard.’</em> I don’t suppose you could offer me any insight? If I’m not mistaken, your English is much better than mine.”</p><p>Ann blinked. Before she could muster a response, Akechi waved the comment away. “Well, no matter. Keep up the good work, Takamaki-san. I do sincerely hope we’ll have the opportunity to speak again.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- - <em>This Above All</em> - -</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>3/25/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Evening</strong><br/><br/></p><p>Akira pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at the smooth spots left by his glasses and letting his eyes drift shut to try to ward off the inevitable effects of the end of another long day. It was a testament to the skill of Leblanc’s proprietor and his tutelage of its manager that the smell of coffee still hadn’t lost its luster, but even Sojiro Sakura had never divined the solution to the inescapable conflict of fifteen-hour days and caffeine withdrawal. At least not one Akira was willing to adopt; choosing between the sleeplessness of coffee and the sleeplessness of a headache was bad enough without topping everything off with a nicotine habit.</p><p>He checked the time. The café had managed for years without posted hours of operation, but the rule of thumb was that by nine o’clock it was usually safe to start shutting down. Crossing around the counter, Akira flipped the door sign to “Closed” and got to work. Leblanc was small enough that he had the restauranteur’s checklist down to an art form, the work of less than fifteen minutes on a quiet night, but there had been several parties to come through the door that evening, along with a couple regulars who had joked about the strangeness of being relegated to the counter. It was nice to be busy, until it came time to clean.</p><p>He was still thankful that they’d finally managed to scrape together enough to afford an actual non-human dishwasher a while back. Futaba had chipped in part of an on-time bonus from a programming gig to push that fund across the finish line. Now if only Akira could find someone willing to quote him less than half a million yen to deal with the damage to the roof from the typhoon last summer... That was on his personal to-do list, however, and not the café’s. It wasn’t as though anyone in Leblanc proper would notice, as long as he could help it. A couple buckets were still within his means.</p><p>At least now plates, cups, and silverware were a simple matter of grabbing a cheap tablet from the box beneath the sink and turning a couple dials. Akira wouldn’t have to worry about the rest until the next morning, leaving him free to wipe down the tables and refresh the condiments and napkin holders. By the time he’d mopped the floor, shut the gas valves and capped the percolators, flipped the stools back down to clean the counter, and packed a few to-go boxes of curry before refrigerating the rest, all that remained was clearing out the register. Or, to be more specific, preparing for the last reservation of the evening to come through the door.</p><p>It was that time of the month in Yongen-Jaya, after all.</p><p>With a sigh, Akira took out his phone. He knew Futaba was generally indifferent to when she ate, or perhaps the concept of time as a whole, and wouldn’t mind a late dinner, but he wanted to confirm whether Sojiro was still up for a visit.</p><p>The bell above the door rang just as Akira sent the text. He glanced away from his phone before locking it and slipping it back into his pocket. “You’re running a little late.”</p><p>The newcomer shrugged, his broad shoulders shifting beneath an ill-fitting sport jacket. The top four buttons of the shirt beneath it were undone, providing a glimpse of a logo T-shirt that marred what little pretense of the business-casual vibe remained. He ran a hand through a head of spiky, bleach-blonde hair. “They saddled me with a couple new guys, I’ve had to show ‘em around,” he said. “Sorry ‘bout that.”</p><p>If Akira hadn’t been familiar with Ryuji Sakamoto, the honesty of the apology might have come as a surprise. As it was, it just made him more annoyed. Akira grabbed the envelope he’d prepared from the register, displaying it for half a moment before tossing it underhand towards the other man.</p><p>Sakamoto caught the envelope and stuffed it into a pocket inside his coat without comment.</p><p>“Not going to count it?” Akira asked, his voice only a bit more indifferent than he truly felt. This was all routine by now.</p><p>“Nah,” Sakamoto replied. “You ain’t been short yet. Besides, we’d just be back for the difference next week during the regular rounds if you were, and then what’s the point of setting this up?”</p><p>“True enough,” Akira replied neutrally.</p><p>“Not many take us up on the scheduling thing like you do, ya know?”</p><p>He frowned. “I figure it’s better than you showing up when there are customers. Extortion tends to ruin peoples’ appetites.”</p><p>Sakamoto grinned. “I dunno. That curry actually smells pretty good, and I’m starving. Think you could fix me a plate?”</p><p>Akira blinked. Then he stared.</p><p>Sakamoto had the grace to look sheepish. Then his stomach audibly growled.</p><p>“You’re serious.”</p><p>The other man rubbed the back of his head, smiling awkwardly. The gesture didn’t look quite so harmless when it showed just how taut the fabric of his sleeves was around his arms. It was one more reminder that this was not the lanky youth Akira had met on his first day at Shujin Academy all those years ago. “Guess I am. We ain’t had time to stop for a bite yet.”</p><p>Shaking his head and keeping his mouth shut through sheer force of will, Akira claimed one of the to-go containers he’d already prepared and dropped it on the counter next to the register. The leftovers hadn’t been in the refrigerator too long, so he could always pack up another. The sooner this farce was over and done, the better.</p><p>Sakamoto grabbed a disposable fork from the nearby bin, tearing off the plastic wrapping before proceeding to crack open the Styrofoam container.</p><p>Akira scowled. “Are you going to make me stand here and watch you eat?”</p><p>“Don’ be like tha’,” Sakamoto slurred, already having taken a mouthful of curry.</p><p>“What should I be like?” Akira said through clenched teeth, trying to keep his voice above a growl. He succeeded, for the most part.</p><p>Sakamoto swallowed, pointing his fork at Akira. “This don’t have to be all confrontational, Kurusu. I know you know that, or we’d be here on the first of the month just like most of the rest of our stops.” He dropped the fork on top of the rice and closed the container. “We could lumber in, crackin’ our knuckles while ya counted out the cash, shakin’ like a leaf and pretendin’ you weren’t the whole fuckin’ time. Hell, I even left the other two guys outside, just because I know you’re one of the few that doesn’t give us shit, or at least not more than we deserve.”</p><p>“Your magnanimity is noted.”</p><p>Sakamoto laughed. “See? How many folks d’ya think snark at us with fuckin’ Scrabble words like that, let alone after payin’ early an’ in full for the fuckteenth month in a row?”</p><p>Akira didn’t quite know how to reply to that, so he didn’t.</p><p>“Shit, Kurusu, I don’t mean to tease you, but I gotta find some way to laugh at this fuckin’ job or I’d snap.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna get outta your hair an’ eat the rest of this in front of the two new assholes they’ve stuck me with, just ‘cause.” Sakamoto reached back and pulled out his wallet. “How much?”</p><p>Akira’s jaw actually dropped open. “You’re kidding.”</p><p>“Nah. C’mon, man, how much for one to go?”</p><p>“You have a hundred thousand yen in that envelope I just gave you,” Akira felt compelled to point out.</p><p>“Fuck, don’t even joke about that. Skimming a single yen from that is more than my life’s worth.”</p><p>“You’re <em>not</em> kidding?”</p><p>Sakamoto shook his head. “Nope. Freebies ain’t part of the deal, least not when I’m doing the legwork.” His brow furrowed. “Any of our guys pull a stunt like that, you tell <em>me</em>, right? The big man says we collect what you owe, an' that's what we do. But who the fuck’s gonna keep paying if everybody shuts down ‘cause we keep takin’ a little more off the top?”</p><p>That was shockingly insightful for a man who apparently made his living through racketeering. “Nine hundred,” Akira said, once he’d found his voice again.</p><p>“Damn, not bad,” Sakamoto replied, thumbing out a set of bills and placing them on the counter. “I might have t’ come by sometime, actually sit down an’ enjoy it. When I’m off the clock, of course.”</p><p>“Of course,” Akira replied, his tone flat.</p><p>Sakamoto seemed to sense the sarcasm even so. His grin was wolfish. “That’s the spirit. Hell, with grub like that it’s no wonder you haven’t had to take your warning yet. The laundromat is the only other spot in Yongen that can say so. Can you believe it? The guys have a pool goin’ on who’ll blink first.”</p><p>He quirked an eyebrow. “I thought you all were joking about that, to be honest.”</p><p>“Nah, everybody gets one strike. Shit happens, y’know? Like when the bathhouse’s boiler blew last year. They had to skip that month, but they’ve been good since. Better for everybody that way, right?”</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind.”</p><p>“Anyway, enough chit-chat, I’ve made the newbies outside wait long enough.” Sakamoto grabbed his box and turned to leave, giving a parting wave with his free hand. “Take it easy, Kurusu.”</p><p>The bell rang, and Akira watched him join the two indistinct figures he’d noticed looming outside through the frosted glass of Leblanc’s front window. The three silhouettes walked off into the darkened alley.</p><p>His phone promptly buzzed.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Damnit. Still nothing useful.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Not entirely.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Duh, I’ve got enough tape on Sakamoto by now that one of my figurines could convict him.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> But busting more street grunts won’t do anyone any good.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Okay, McNulty. But that’s not what I meant.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> The one-strike thing? I guess that’s worth something.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> How generous of the mafia to provide everyone with a one-time “get out of extortion free” card.</p><p> </p><p>Futaba had a point, but Akira felt he had to look at things more pragmatically. He did not doubt for a single instant that Futaba was worried about him, personally. But even so, to her the extortion racket in Yongen-Jaya was more akin to a stubborn bit of code she hadn’t figured out, or a game she hadn’t beaten yet. It was her nature and condition; she couldn’t help but be a little removed from things that happened outside the door of Sojiro’s house. It wasn’t her fault, and Akira was privately glad she hadn’t had to witness the situation firsthand, as he and Sojiro had.</p><p>It hadn’t happened overnight, or all at once. It started with a few unfamiliar faces prowling the backstreets in groups of three. Those same faces kept appearing, and then they started chatting up some of the owners. It was the kind of harmless gossip nobody would think twice about sharing, even with strangers: How was the neighborhood? How was business?</p><p>Then, the questions started changing. Anybody giving you trouble? Anything we can help out with? At the time, Tsuboi-san, the owner of the grocery store, had been dealing with chronic, petty shoplifting for months. The police had taken statements and the CCTV tapes, but time passed, and made it clear that the police had bigger problems than a few missing boxes of pocky. Tsuboi-san hadn’t been happy, and hadn’t been quiet about it even before the strangers started asking. It wasn’t long before a pair of local kids was found locked with bike chains to one of the produce stands, with twenty broken fingers between them. Brutal, to be certain, but it was the same two boys that had shown up on the tapes, time and again, that the cops had done nothing about.</p><p>When the next month began, the grocer found three familiar faces in his doorway, only this time they weren’t there to chat. They were there to collect for services rendered. Tsuboi-san, understandably attached to his fingers just as they were, paid promptly.</p><p>People stopped talking to the strangers after that, but by then the damage was done. The fact that they were known had been the whole purpose to begin with. The groups of three men didn’t want to chat any longer, and they didn’t see the need to earn what they started asking for in advance.</p><p>But even that wasn’t the worst of it; at that point, Yongen-Jaya still had some stubbornness in its bones. When three men came knocking, the elderly couple that owned and operated the tiny second-run theater stood their ground, the little old lady chasing them through the streets with a broom. The men had laughed, and said they’d be back next month, but for that month all of Yongen had retold the story so many times that you couldn’t sweep your front porch without breaking out in a grin.</p><p>The men came back the next month, just like they’d said. When they asked for what was owed, the little old lady told them she’d give them her broom. They left again, and all of Yongen privately cheered.</p><p>The theater burned down that night. It was eventually ruled a tragic accident, caused by a leaking gas line in an old structure that was no longer up to code. The last Akira heard, the widow had moved to Sendai to live with her daughter. The building had been bought by land speculators, but the windows were still boarded up; the scorch marks were a warning plain for all to see.</p><p>After that disaster of raw stubbornness, when three men showed up at the batting cages, Tsukishima-san tried the law. To be fair, the police made a far better showing than they had against the shoplifters: for an entire month, a rotating cast of uniformed officers was omnipresent in the backstreets. Two beat cops at a time on three eight-hour shifts, with one of the two taking turns standing at the base of the stairs leading up to the batting cages. The familiar faces weren’t stupid; they didn’t show up with a cop standing right there. For a month, the residents of Yongen-Jaya breathed a little easier.</p><p>A month and a day after they’d first showed up, there was an anonymous 110 call made for a man with a knife threatening people at a Triple Seven near the train station. Naturally, both officers in Yongen responded.</p><p>By the time they returned to their posts from the false report, they found Tsukishima-san at the base of the stairs leading up to his batting cages. Whether he’d had any help falling down, even he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – say. He was out of business before the patrolmen were reassigned, and even that was long before he was physically capable of walking up those stairs again. The message was obvious, in hindsight: “The police aren't always here, but you are. And now, so are we.”</p><p>The writing was on the wall. Every business in Yongen-Jaya was left with nothing but the hope that they wouldn’t be next. One by one, over the course of the following year, everyone eventually was.</p><p>Futaba’s counterattack after Leblanc's turn had come had probably done the most tangible damage. A few of the mouthier crews got picked up, but by then no one was willing to risk testifying against them, and anonymous recordings were only good enough to scare some of the dumber ones into pleas for wrist-slaps like loitering or misdemeanor intimidation. Alibaba also exposed more than two dozen fraudulently registered accounts in almost as many banks, but the police were too busy basking in the good press from seizing over a hundred million yen in forfeitures to care that nobody actually went to jail over it. In the end, all it meant was now everyone had to pay in cash.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> No sense worrying about it now. Are you ready for dinner?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Curry time!</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Sojiro’s still up. I can hear him grumbling at the TV.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> News or sports?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> A little of both. No more talking, I hunger!</p><p> </p><p>“All right, all right, I’m on my way,” Akira said aloud, pocketing his phone. After a quick stop at the refrigerator to fix a fresh box, he packed the three cartons into a plastic bag to the soft accompaniment of the sloshing dishwasher, and took one last look to make sure everything was as it should be. He flicked off the lights and stepped outside, locking the door behind him. Twirling the ring of keys around his finger, he turned.</p><p>He stopped short, blinking towards the ground at the black cat sitting on Leblanc’s front stoop. Two blue eyes stared up at him with an inquisitive tilt of its head. “Mrow?"</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- - <em>This Above All</em> - -</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>3/25/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Evening</strong><br/><br/></p><p>Ann slumped bonelessly into her office chair. Wincing, she kicked off her heels, and spent an entire minute debating whether she had enough energy to slip on the pair of tennis shoes stashed beneath her desk. She eventually settled on “yes,” since there was still light visible under the door to her EP’s office.</p><p>He might run when she tried to murder him, after all. It would pay to be prepared.</p><p>The man had gone way, <em>way</em> overboard in retaliation for her stunt during the Akechi interview, in her opinion. It had started innocently enough: her cameraman had been tasked with filming B-roll of Yasukuni Shrine after the memorial. The film van had been her ride, and while she could have just taken a train back to the studio in Akasaka, she wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly why <em>her</em> cameraman had been asked to film the background fluff they would show on a loop behind the talking heads on the nightly news, and she knew that her cameraman knew it, too. Since he was one of the few that had never “accidentally” left a live feed running for a conspicuous close-up of her chest or ass, she wasn’t about to piss him off further by stranding him with busy work that was actually being aimed at her.</p><p>The studio said the first video file was corrupted, never mind that they could play it just fine. After reshooting, the second attempt kept getting a transmission error; they waited over an hour for the station to call them back, only to claim that some nameless tech had “mistakenly” reset their van’s VPN password.</p><p>When the control room started asking for new footage after the six o’clock broadcast was already live, it was obvious what was going on.</p><p>They’d hung up on the studio mid-call, flipped the breaker to make sure the van was well and truly off the air, and cracked open a couple beers from the mini-fridge to brainstorm gruesome demises for their bosses. At that point, after six hours in Chiyoda, they’d both needed the stress relief.</p><p>With a groan and the dream of a long, hot bath waiting at home, Ann ducked beneath her desk, groping for the comfortable change of footwear. That was, of course, precisely when there was a knock on her office door.</p><p>“Matsuda, if that’s you,” she grunted, finally finding her shoes and slipping them on, “give me one second and I will <em>gladly—</em>” the litany of threats she had prepared died on her lips the instant her head popped back up from beneath her desk.</p><p>“As you can see, I’m not Matsuda, Takamaki-san.”</p><p>She gulped. “Director. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Ann would have happily torn her executive producer into tiny pieces with her bare hands, but when SNN’s Director of Programming showed up at your door, it was not usually a social call.</p><p>“My office, Takamaki-san,” he said simply, and walked away.</p><p>Ann muttered a curse and followed.</p><p>“Shut the door, please,” he said, taking a seat behind his desk.</p><p>She did so. “Director, I don’t know what—”</p><p>“Save it,” he interrupted, though not harshly. He planted his elbows on his desk, sighing as he leaned forward. His glasses moved askew as he pinched the bridge of his nose between both hands. “I’ve already gotten an earful from your producer. Several, actually.”</p><p>In spite of her better judgement, Ann scowled. “And you don’t need to hear my side of the story?”</p><p>“As a matter of fact, I already have,” he replied, leaning back. He pulled the silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and began polishing his glasses. “I watched your interview with Representative Akechi. You conducted it masterfully. Hitting him with those statistics from the Kyoto University study was a particularly nice play.”</p><p>Ann felt her righteous anger deflate, leaving her oddly adrift. “Err… thank you?”</p><p>“So no, your EP’s complaints are not the purpose of this meeting. However, regardless of the objective quality of your interview, I do need to know just what the hell you said to Akechi after the camera was off. Not even your… unique… style explains why I, and every one of my superiors, have received calls from the Prime Minister’s Office.”</p><p>She blinked. “Old Man Tora? I’d have thought he’d enjoy seeing Akechi knocked down a peg or three.”</p><p>“Alas, no, it was not the acting PM himself, but rather the flotsam surrounding him. The power behind the throne, as it were. Suffice it to say, Takamaki-san, there are several someones in Kasumigaseki who want your head on a platter.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “What else is new?”</p><p>“They don’t typically call the president of the network and every member of the board of directors with explicit instructions to have you ‘take a vacation’ and conveniently fail to return.”</p><p>Ann scoffed at that. Newscasters the world over tended to take many “vacations” that conspicuously coincided with scandal and backlash from viewers and – more importantly – sponsors. To be honest, the thing that surprised Ann the most was that she even merited that kind of fig leaf. She had always figured she’d just be shown the door the old-fashioned way. “I asked Akechi point-blank if Shido died of a mental shutdown or psychotic breakdown.”</p><p>The director blinked. Then he laughed, once, short and sharp. “My God, what this country would have looked like if you’d been here ten years ago.”</p><p>“I probably wouldn’t have to wear this thing, for starters,” she replied, jabbing a thumb towards her head.</p><p>“True.” There was a strange, sad note to the man’s smile, which was quickly schooled away. “But while I may <em>personally</em> applaud your tenacity, you won’t find much sympathy on any other fronts. Certainly not on any higher floors. And thus, my hands are tied.”</p><p>“Yeah, that sounds more like the 'Shido' News Network," she grumbled. "I knew this conversation was going too well for me. So do I need to start packing my desk, or is there just a secret button that lets you release the hounds?” At least she’d had a chance to change her shoes.</p><p>“Don’t start running yet, Takamaki-san. Needless to say, you are off the political beat. You will not be making any trips to the National Diet for quite some time.”</p><p>“Why do I get the distinct impression that that’s the good news?” One hand on her waist, she cocked her hips. It was a pose she’d always favored in her modeling days; it made her feel assertive. On some level, she knew she was bracing for the <em>bad</em> news.</p><p>“I am reassigning you to the public interest desk. Lifestyle and fashion, to be specific.”</p><p>She reeled, not least at the force of the irony. “If you wanted me to quit, you could have just put me in the daytime lineup,” she sniped, struggling not to show how deeply the blow stung. “Are you trying to out-petty Matsuda?”</p><p>“I would very much like everyone to think so.”</p><p>Something about his tone tweaked her instincts as a reporter, through even the fog of pain and yearning at the mention of her long-lost first career. “What are you saying?”</p><p>The director leaned forward again, an eager light in his eyes. “You’re going where anyone who is the faintest bit familiar with your history – which, I can assure you, is most of those calling for your head – will hear of, and smile, and most importantly? Never notice if you are <em>never there</em>.”</p><p>“I’m listening,” she said, still feeling as cautious as a stray cat.</p><p>“You need to be ‘punished’ on paper, and to be out of sight. And right now, I need… well, to be blunt, I need someone just like you.”</p><p>Ann tried not to let a surge of disgust show on her face. Actually, no, that wasn’t true. She let the disgust show, and just tried not to vomit. “God <em>damnit</em>. I am sick and fucking tired of using the network’s org chart as a sexual harassment bingo card!”</p><p>The director blinked, taken aback, but that only allowed Ann to keep gaining steam. “The last time I walked into HR, they actually loaded a fucking template. For me! The real kicker is, I can’t believe there was anyone here it actually surprises me to be propositioned by, but lo and behold! You apparently fit the bill, Director Yoshizawa. Congratu-fucking-lations.”</p><p>As Ann stood there, taking a moment to try to catch her breath and continue her rant, the man held up a fist and audibly cleared his throat. Ann seethed. Was… was he <em>smiling?!</em></p><p>“I assure you, I am quite happily married. You may know of her; Aoba is on the network’s team of legal counsel, and has something of a reputation. No, I need your investigative talents, Takamaki-san.”</p><p>There was a long moment of silence. “Oh. That… makes more sense.”</p><p>“In context, yes, though given your history here I can hardly fault your reaction,” he replied. “On a related note, my wife will be happy to hear that HR listened to her instructions about the template; she wanted to know if anyone else gave you trouble so she could… how did she put it? ‘Personally ensure we used their intestines for tinsel at the next Christmas party.’ Aoba is quite a fan of yours.”</p><p>“I… should probably sit down.”</p><p>Director Yoshizawa gestured at the chairs across from his desk. “Be my guest.”</p><p>Ann sat. His visitor chairs were comfier than the ones she kept in her office. She decided that said something about the man before her.</p><p>“Misunderstandings aside, Takamaki-san, while I need your talents as an investigator and bloodhound, your assignment will not be entirely impersonal to me.”</p><p>His gaze was unblinking and strikingly earnest. For an instant, Ann wondered how the hell he was still working here. It could be she was just that jaded, and a halfway-decent man seemed a saint by comparison to his peers. Was he a secret idealist, one of the mythical “reform from within” types? The very thought was a bad joke, these days. It was always possible he was lying, of course, though she couldn’t fathom what he stood to gain by it.</p><p>Unlikeliest of all, perhaps he was here for the same reason she was: even if it felt like you were screaming into a void, someone still had to try to tell people the truth. Otherwise, why keep breathing?</p><p>Ann didn’t know to what degree he could read her thoughts through her face, but the director’s voice grew softer, almost conspiratorial. “I’ll be direct: I need someone unconnected to me, but possessed of the determination, drive, and sheer stubborn cussedness to keep digging at a problem that may not matter to them, but which matters a great deal to me.”</p><p>If he wasn’t simply playing <em>her</em>, then Yoshizawa was playing a dangerous game. One did not idly risk the wrath of Japan’s government. Well, maybe <em>she</em> did, but like Shiho kept telling her, that was its own whole bundle of issues she’d been trying to work through for years. It took guts just to try to pull a fast one on your superiors in office politics this way without a damned good reason, for that matter. Either the director was angling for some serious deep-cover world-shattering capital-J journalism, or he’d read one too many spy novels as a kid.</p><p>In a nutshell, Ann figured she was either going to be looking for a Pulitzer, or UFOs.</p><p>“I suppose I need to know what that problem is, then,” she replied at last.</p><p>Yoshizawa shifted, reaching back to withdraw his wallet. Flipping the expensive leather open, he dug out a small square of paper. He looked at it for a moment, his expression utterly inscrutable, and then set it down. Gently, almost reverently, he pushed it across the desk to Ann. It was a picture.</p><p>“The problem that every father fears, Takamaki-san. I need you to find my daughter.”</p><p>Ann blinked. Well… at least it wasn’t UFOs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Asylum</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>3/31/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Tuesday<br/></strong> <strong>Evening</strong></p><p> </p><p>There had been a time, not long past, when Akira enjoyed rainy nights.</p><p>Whether it was a spring shower rapping lightly above the rafters, or a summer torrent falling hard enough to rattle the windows, the music of rainfall had been the only nighttime companion Akira had known in all his time in Tokyo.</p><p>The raw isolation of his first year was a faint, if unforgotten, ache. Long nights spent staring at a bare wooden ceiling, every bit as unfamiliar as it was unfinished. Crying himself to sleep in the attic above a stranger’s café, the sound of rain an added layer of security to the hollow emptiness of the building below.</p><p>The warmth of his return, seeing those same rafters and feeling comfortable in a way his time back “home” after probation never once matched. Countless hours beside Sojiro, nailing up drywall and hanging the brackets for a drop-tile ceiling, hiding the familiar wooden beams behind a host of fiberglass squares, every one like a new welcome mat above his head. The sound of rain was still his only bedmate, perhaps, but that bed was a new mattress in an actual frame, and not a lumpy cast-off propped up on mismatched milk crates. Storm or shower, the rain still came and went on its own time, like visits from an unpredictable friend.</p><p>In the years since, it had been a third, quiet voice in long conversations with Sojiro, hashing out the borders of the tentative new family they were trying to build. Background music for retro games on an equally retro television, on Futaba’s preciously rare sojourns outside the safety of her father’s home. A calm, unjudging companion, steady as a heartbeat, helping him map the contours of his new life. A voiceless lullaby, easing him to sleep.</p><p>But for all that, Akira no longer welcomed the rain. On wet nights like tonight, he could barely stand to set foot in his own room above Leblanc. The rain, he had learned, was only a companion so long as you had a roof that didn’t leak.</p><p>Tonight, Akira sat in the darkness of the café. His long legs stretched the whole length of one of the booths, with his back against the wall, cushioned by a pillow borrowed from his bed. The television was tuned to some late-night variety show, the volume just loud enough to subsume the steady <em>drip, drip, drip</em> from upstairs that made rest an impossibility. His faint solace was that the weather app on his phone said that the steady rain wouldn’t last all night. It was just starting to taper off, which meant he might get at least a few hours of sleep.</p><p>The only thing more inane than Japanese daytime television was Japanese nighttime television. One cast of oppressively upbeat hosts was indistinguishable from the next, as the clock in the corner struck out the twelve chimes of a new day.</p><p>Akira considered putting something worth watching on the TV. Futaba had built and programmed the media server herself, and for all the complaints he’d heard about using it as an inoffensive noisemaker when the café was open to customers, Akira was well aware that she’d been sure to link it to her personal archive, same as the TV in his room. The only thing that stopped him was relative discomfort; Leblanc’s booths were meant for sitting and eating, not lounging and binge-watching. That, and he’d left the remote on the counter.</p><p>He grunted, sliding out of the booth. Back on his feet, Akira adjusted his sweatpants and rolled his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the stiffness his makeshift recliner had produced. He pulled out one of the stools and sat, grabbing the remote and flipping through a few channels to see if anything caught his attention. Something did, though it wasn’t on the television.</p><p>There was a faint knock at the door.</p><p>Akira turned, startled enough that he dropped the remote with a clatter. The “Closed” sign was set. Even if they’d missed that, and seen the light from the TV, surely no one thought the café was open at this hour? He stood. With the lights off, it was too dark to see who was there until he was almost at the door, and when he did, he almost tripped over his own feet in shock.</p><p>Turning the lock, he pulled the door open. “Su— Yoshizawa-san?!” he blurted, stumbling over himself mentally as well as physically.</p><p>She was utterly soaked, and visibly shivering. “K-Kurusu-san… I… D-don’t know where else to g-go.”</p><p>He stepped aside without a second thought, gesturing for her to come in. “What’s wrong? What happened? How long have you been out there?” he asked, all in a rush.</p><p>She didn’t answer, though she at least took the few faltering steps needed to come inside out of the rain. After shutting the door, Akira reached by reflex to turn on the lights, but when she flinched and raised her arm with a wordless cry of distress, he turned them back off at once. Even his eyes, which were at least somewhat adjusted from staring at the TV, were dazzled for a moment.</p><p>“Sorry,” he said.</p><p>She nodded weakly, or at least he thought so; the gesture was almost indistinguishable through her shaking. Gathering his wits, Akira darted around her, jogging the length of the café in half a dozen steps. He went into the bathroom nestled against the stairs in the back, emerging a second later with a large towel. A few more quick strides and he draped it over her shoulders. He rubbed his hands against her upper arms through the towel; even with that gentle touch, the way she swayed without resistance worried him. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth hung open. Her breath was coming in rapid, shallow gasps.</p><p>Beneath the towel, she was wearing yoga pants and a hoodie. The small logo on the hoodie was familiar; if Akira was not mistaken, she was in fact wearing the exact same clothes he’d last seen her in, almost a week ago.</p><p>He shifted his hands to take her gently by the elbow. “Come on. Let’s get you off your feet.”</p><p>She may have nodded again, or shivered approximately, or merely been at the point of falling asleep standing up. For all he knew, it was all three. He guided her into the middle booth. It was under one of the vents for the furnace; coincidentally, it was the same seat he’d been using to watch TV from for just that reason. Akira stepped away to turn the thermostat up from its overnight setting to the one used when Leblanc was open. It rumbled to life at once.</p><p>At a loss for anything else to do at that moment, Akira sat down on the opposite bench.</p><p>The wash of heated air seemed to jog Yoshizawa out of the worst of her stupor. “Warm…” she mumbled absently, a small smile appearing on her face. Akira would have found it more endearing if he wasn’t worried she was delirious. Her shaking steadied into more of an idle sway done in time with her breathing, which was taking on a deeper, more reassuring timbre as she returned to some semblance of awareness.</p><p>“Yoshizawa-san?” Akira asked. His panic, at least, had subsided enough to let him start with the basics.</p><p>“Mmm…” she muttered, her eyes still closed. “Just us… Said you’d call me ‘sumi…”</p><p>He swallowed. “Kasumi-san?”</p><p>Her brow furrowed. “Mmm…” she repeated, though this time it sounded more like a pained whine. Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked several times before she managed to focus on him. “Akira-san? Where…?”</p><p>“You’re in Leblanc. Sorry it’s dark, you didn’t react well when I turned the lights on before.”</p><p>“I…” Her eyes closed and she shook her head, though at least this time the gestures appeared to be deliberate and controlled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “How did… when…?”</p><p>“You showed up a couple minutes ago. It’s just past midnight,” he said, hazarding a guess at her confused inquiry.</p><p>“I…” she said again, swallowing. “I don’t know where to start.”</p><p>“How about we start with something warm. Do you want something to drink?” he asked.</p><p>Her lips turned up in just the barest hint of a smile. “I bet you say that to all your regulars when they show up at times like these.”</p><p>“Only the <em>most</em> faithful ones, I’ll admit,” he acknowledged, smiling a little in return. “That being said, coffee might be a bad idea. How does hot chocolate sound?”</p><p>“Lovely, actually,” she replied. Her hands reached out of the sodden sleeves of her hoodie to clutch the towel over her shoulders like a blanket.</p><p>“On second thought, let me get you some different clothes, first,” said Akira. “I don’t exactly have anything in your size, but I think we’ll start with warm and dry and worry about the rest later.”</p><p>She nodded, dabbing weakly at her face and hair with the drier edges of the towel.</p><p>He slid out of the bench and went upstairs to his room, dancing over the bucket at the top of the steps with a grimace. He tried not to dwell on the guilt and irony of offering Yoshizawa shelter in a building with a leaking roof, and busied himself finding something for her to wear that wouldn’t embarrass them both. She was tall for a Japanese woman, but since Akira was above-average himself, that didn’t help matters much.</p><p>Trying not to overthink trivialities – such as an attractive young woman changing into his clothes – he went through his dresser and closet for a decent combination that met his stated criteria of “warm” and “dry.” A plain white T-shirt. A set of thick socks. Some nearly-new sweatpants with both elastic and a drawstring. One of his oldest hoodies; it had been his first birthday gift from Futaba, and was emblazoned with a reference to a webcomic they both liked. It was still in good condition, as he’d outgrown it many years ago; Yoshizawa would practically swim in it even so. Having done laundry for the Sakura household more than once in the past, he didn’t dwell on the lack of female undergarments at hand, and grabbed a pair of boxers that should serve. At least everything was clean.</p><p>It hadn’t been more than two minutes by the time Akira trekked back down the steps, but the sight that greeted him stopped him short even so. In his absence, Yoshizawa had claimed the pillow he’d been using for a backrest, placed it on the table before her, and fallen asleep.</p><p>His stocking feet whispering across the hardwood floor as he stepped up to the booth, Akira couldn’t help but smile. Yoshizawa’s hair was a mess, but somehow beautiful in disarray, strewn about her head, the pillow, and the table like a red cloud, made darker by the night. The towel was still draped over her shoulders, shifting with each breath. Her arms were folded on the table beneath the pillow, delicate fingers clutching reflexively at the edges of her sleeves.</p><p>Akira debated with himself for a moment. He could hardly let Yoshizawa spend the night like that, but he decided that a few minutes of rest wouldn’t be set amiss by doing so in wet clothes. He placed the stack he’d brought down with him on the bench across from her, and went behind the counter to make the cup of hot chocolate he’d promised. If happenstance, or the smell, hadn’t roused her by the time it was ready, then he’d wake her up himself.</p><p>He did, at least, turn on the lights in the kitchen, and muted the TV along the way. He was familiar with the place, no doubt, but not enough to want to ply his trade in the dark. It only took a few minutes to make two cups of hot chocolate – and enough for refills, just in case – and Yoshizawa had not stirred. He set a steaming mug down on the table beside her head, and as he took a seat next to her change of clothes, he reached out to wake her up.</p><p>Without ever deciding to do so, Akira found his hand stroking her hair.</p><p>Catching himself, he froze, two fingers stopped mid-motion in gently brushing aside a few strands of Yoshizawa’s sodden bangs. Cursing his presumption, he chalked the slip up to a mix of shock and fatigue. With deliberate care, he withdrew his hand.</p><p>“’s late,” she murmured, just as he pulled away. “Lemme sleep, Kasumi…”</p><p>Akira drew in a sharp breath. Could…? No. She was exhausted, possibly delirious; even when Yoshizawa had been awake, she’d barely been aware. Before today, he’d already known she was deluded, in the psychological sense. He wasn’t going to take some sleepy utterance as anything more than that. To think that who she was, who she <em>really</em> was, might still be inside her head somewhere… it felt too much like hope.</p><p>And Akira knew better than that.</p><p>“Yoshizawa-san?” he whispered, his voice coming out in a strained croak. He cleared his throat softly and tried again. “Yoshizawa-san?” He reached out to her once more. He touched her shoulder this time.</p><p>Lashes fluttering, her head twisted against the pillow. “Kurusu-san?” she mumbled. “Oh. Sorry. I fell asleep.”</p><p>“I think you can be forgiven.” He even managed a smile.</p><p>She returned it, her sleepy grin making his heart stutter in his chest.</p><p>He managed to find his voice, even if his heart was gone for good. “I’ve got a change of clothes for you, and the hot chocolate, too. Looks like you get to pick.”</p><p>She giggled drowsily. “I told you once that your customer service sucked. Sorry. I guess I lied.”</p><p>“I figured that out, actually.”</p><p>“Hmm. No wonder. You’re the only person I talk to…” she trailed off, interrupted by a yawn, “…that always makes perfect sense. It shouldn’t be a surprise that I sound the same way to you.”</p><p>Akira blinked. He tried hard not to read too much into that statement.</p><p>He tried very, very hard.</p><p>“Is that so?” he asked. From the wall above the register, the clock struck half-past twelve.</p><p>“Mmhmm,” she nodded. “Talking to you… it’s the only time I feel… normal, I suppose.”</p><p>“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he decided. “The way I see it, at the end of the day, normal is what you see in the mirror.”</p><p>She blinked and nodded, the gestures stretching out languidly to the point where he couldn’t be sure she was even hearing him properly. Her reply, apropos of nothing, only reinforced that thought. “Ugh, I need a shower…”</p><p>“That can be arranged, as well.”</p><p>To his surprise, she groaned, dropping her face squarely into the pillow that still lay on the table between them. “How can you be real?” Her words were muffled, but distinct.</p><p>“Maybe I’m not. You might be dreaming,” he said, fighting off a yawn of his own. “For that matter, I might be, too.”</p><p>Yoshizawa pulled her face out of the pillow. “Let’s find out.”</p><p>Before Akira could ask what she meant, she’d leaned forward, grabbed a handful of his shirt, and pressed her lips against his.</p><p>He was too startled to even try to enjoy it. Not because it was unwanted, <em>certainly</em> not that, but because the kiss was over almost the instant it began.</p><p>Yoshizawa pulled back. Her eyes were wide, and now definitely aware. “Oh,” she said, her voice shaky, as she released her hold on his collar. “That’s… usually when I wake up.”</p><p>He cleared his throat. “…I see.”</p><p>“I’m sorry!” She buried her face in her hands. “I’m so, so sorry!” she gasped.</p><p><em>Screw it,</em> Akira decided. <em>It’s 12:30 in the morning, and this day already makes no sense.</em> “Is it okay with you if I’m not sorry?” he asked aloud.</p><p>Yoshizawa slowly dropped her hands. Both her cheeks and her eyes were red. “I… am really too tired to make sense of what I think you just said.”</p><p>It was Akira’s turn to groan. He pushed aside his glasses to run both hands over his face. “That goes for both of us. Let’s make it simple, and take one step back. Hot chocolate, dry clothes, or that shower. Which would you like most?”</p><p>Yoshizawa glanced down at the waterlogged attire she was still wearing. By now, the towel over her shoulders was nearly as wet. She grimaced. “The last two, I think.”</p><p>Akira nodded. “Okay.” He picked up the clothes sitting beside him on the bench, and offered them to her.</p><p>She accepted the folded pile, and stood. Biting her lip, she glanced around. “Um… Where…?”</p><p>Akira slapped his face. “Right, sorry. You know the restroom in the back? There’s a small shower through the second door inside.”</p><p>She blinked. “Oh. I’d seen that, but thought it was for storage, or maybe a linen closet.”</p><p>“At one point, it was,” he admitted. When he and Sojiro had renovated the attic for him to live in properly, they’d also rearranged that one portion of Leblanc itself. What had been storage for cleaning supplies, as well as the building’s water heater and furnace, they managed to reassemble into just the latter two and a small, but serviceable, shower stall. It was a far cry from a typical Japanese bath, but it had been easier than trying to get plumbing upstairs, cheaper than constantly using the bathhouse across the alley, and less awkward than Akira borrowing the facilities in Sojiro’s two-bedroom home. “It’s nothing fancy,” he explained, “but you’re welcome to what I have. There’re clean towels, plenty of hot water, and both doors lock from the inside.”</p><p>She smiled a little at that reassurance. “Well, then I suppose I’ll feel three times as safe as simply trusting you. Thank you.” She bowed, a guest to her host. “Excuse me. I won’t take long.”</p><p>Yoshizawa shut the door to the bathroom behind her. Akira tried to resist the urge to smash his head through the table; it was no less than he deserved. He settled for turning on the lights and putting the cooling supply of hot chocolate in the microwave to await an opportune time to reheat.</p><p>Once more at loose ends, he tried very hard not to think about the running water he could hear through Leblanc’s kitchen wall, and instead focused on the steady patter of rain against the café’s front window.  He groaned, longing for the simplicity of a soothing, restful night. Somehow, he didn’t think that was an option, leaking roof or not.</p><p>Yoshizawa had kissed him. He would very much like an opportunity to kiss her back.</p><p>More than that, however, he needed the answers to some very important questions. Some he’d been wrestling with long before this night. It felt almost ludicrous to consider, but he had no answers all the same. For ten years she’d been Kasumi, bold, brilliant, and bright, both briefly in person and then preserved perfectly, perhaps ideally, inside his head. He knew her now, in truth, as Sumire. Flawed, fallible, fragile, and somehow still just as dear. Who was she, really? Who was she, to him?</p><p>And, perhaps more pressing, why in the world was she here?</p><p>Outside, the rain continued to fall. There were no answers in the sound.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- - <em>This Above All</em> - -</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>4/1/2026</strong><br/><strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Early Morning</strong></p><p> </p><p>The rain outside had tapered off to the faintest drizzle by the time the door to Leblanc’s bathroom creaked open again. From the stool where he’d been staring in the direction of the TV, Akira turned. He tried not to stare at Yoshizawa as she emerged, but there suddenly didn’t seem to be anything else in the world worth looking at.</p><p>“Thank you, Akira-san,” she said, balancing an armful of her former, sodden clothes as she reached back with her free hand to shut the bathroom door. “I finally feel like I’m awake.”</p><p>For his part, Akira was convinced that he was dreaming. He’d expected that she would be swimming in even his smallest clothes, but what he hadn’t anticipated was the jumble of emotions that were now drowning him. He’d seen her in oversized hoodies before – she’d walked in wearing one – and baggy sweatpants flattered no one almost by design. But the thing that struck him hardest had nothing to do with Yoshizawa’s attire.</p><p>She’d left off the ribbon from her hair.</p><p>“I can’t even remember the last time I had a shower with water that warm,” she said, walking past him towards one of the booths. She’d bundled her old clothes inside a towel, and set it on the bench. “I guess it makes sense, being right next to the heater, huh?”</p><p>“It’s one of the perks here, I suppose,” he managed. At least he was recovering enough to be capable of mindless agreement.</p><p>Her hair was still wet, leaving the back of her new hoodie visibly damp, but of course he didn’t own a hair dryer, and it was probably still an improvement from before. It surprised him just how long her hair was, out of its customary ponytail. He’d never seen her any other way.</p><p>“Akira-san?” she’d turned, and caught him staring.</p><p>“Sorry,” he replied.</p><p>She picked at the set of the thick fabric over her shoulders. “I guess I do look a little silly.”</p><p>“Not at all,” he countered, shaking his head emphatically.</p><p>She poked her hands out of the sleeves. “I tried bunching them up, but they just fell right back down. I suppose I could roll them if they get in the way, but that might stretch the fabric, and I don’t want to ruin borrowed clothes.”</p><p>“You can’t hurt that old thing, trust me.”</p><p>Yoshizawa gave him a hesitant smile. “It’s very comfortable, at least.” She paused, and her expression turned thoughtful. “The logo confuses me, though; I know it’s in English, but I guess I don’t get the joke. N-I-N-J… Four?”</p><p>“Ninja,” Akira supplied. “It’s from the internet, something called ‘leetspeak,’ where they switch certain letters with numbers that look alike. The number four looks similar to the English ‘A,’ so they get swapped.”</p><p>“Oh! Now I see,” she exclaimed, peering down at the large block letters across her chest. “I’ve noticed some people text like that, though I’ve never known what it was called.”</p><p>“I had no choice but to learn, considering how Futaba texted when we first met.”</p><p>“Sakura-san’s daughter?”</p><p>Akira nodded. “Right. I forgot you’ve never met.” Futaba was generally averse to strangers, unless she could interact exclusively online. The fact that she’d paid enough attention to Yoshizawa to be able to tease Akira about her was something of an outlier.</p><p>“You two… are close?” she asked, though she seemed unwilling to look his way all of a sudden.</p><p>Akira nodded, smiling fondly. “She’s the little sister I never had growing up.” And if she hadn’t been comatose at that moment from a three-day coding fugue, he’d have paid dearly for saying so aloud. She’d probably be out until that afternoon, at least. If Akira was <em>very</em> lucky, Futaba wouldn’t go back through this time range on her bugs.</p><p>“I see,” Yoshizawa replied, still not quite meeting his eyes.</p><p>Akira was too perceptive to miss her reactions, and too attuned to her in particular to misread what they meant. Unfortunately, he was also just tired enough not to keep his sarcasm in check. “You don’t have any competition, Yoshizawa-san. From that quarter, or any other.”</p><p>She made a sound like she’d just tried to swallow her tongue, color rising to her cheeks.</p><p>“Sorry,” said Akira. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That was tactless on my part.”</p><p>Yoshizawa shook her head vigorously, unbound hair swaying with the gesture. “No… you’re… We should probably… talk about that.”</p><p>“Yes. Among other things.”</p><p>She practically wilted where she stood, drawing in on herself like a scolded child. She folded her arms across her stomach, hands still hidden by her sleeves, her shoulders hunched in obvious misery.</p><p>“Why don’t you take a seat?” Akira asked, gentling his tone. “And how about that hot chocolate now?”</p><p>She nodded, sliding back into the same booth seat where she’d fallen asleep. Akira stepped into the kitchen and ran the microwave for a minute, before removing two once-more steaming mugs. “We’re lucky; Sojiro would kill me if I ever treated coffee this way,” he said, placing one cup in front of Yoshizawa before taking a seat himself. He cradled his own mug, letting the warmth seep into his hands.</p><p>She tried to smile at the joke, and failed. She took a cautious sip. “I still don’t know where to start.”</p><p>“The beginning would be good,” Akira suggested. Knowing that sounded harsher than he’d intended, he hastened to add, “When you first got here, you said you had nowhere else to go?”</p><p>Yoshizawa took another drink, swallowed, and finally began. “The manager at my apartment complex said that the next time she saw me, if I didn’t have rent money, she would start moving me out herself.”</p><p>Akira frowned. “That seems harsh.” She’d only been living here six months, after all.</p><p>“To be fair to her, I… haven’t been able to pay since the three-month deposit on my one-year lease, back when I first moved in. I’d hoped to catch up, but…”</p><p>He sipped his hot chocolate while trying to decide on the proper tone. “So you’ve… been evicted?”</p><p>“Not… officially?” she replied, seeming uncertain. “Or at least my belongings were still inside when last I checked. I haven’t been there in a few days, though. You know, in case she was... serious.”</p><p>He blinked. “Where have you been staying?”</p><p>Yoshizawa’s eyes were fixed on her mug. “I’ve been sleeping in my studio.”</p><p>Akira fought back a grimace. He’d helped her set the place up, and couldn’t think of a way that was at all practical. “That can’t have been very comfortable.”</p><p>She shrugged. “It’s heated, and there are showers in the locker rooms. I’ve spent almost everything I have to stay paid up with my landlord there. I couldn’t afford to lose my only source of income, after all.”</p><p>His brow furrowed. It didn’t sound pleasant, let alone sustainable, but if Yoshizawa still had the studio, she at least hadn’t needed to brave the rain and show up on his doorstep the way she did. “So then why…” he started to ask, but trailed off as realization struck. “Oh.”</p><p>It was that time of the month in Yongen-Jaya, after all.</p><p>Even clasped around her mug, Yoshizawa’s hands were shaking. “I can’t pay this month… and I couldn’t pay the last, either. It hasn’t just been my apartment, or showering in a locker room. I’ve cut every corner I can. I’ve skipped doing laundry, and walked everywhere instead of using the trains. I even pawned what little jewelry I owned in order to pay for those flyers I put up. That was my last hope. I’ve been living on energy drinks and protein jelly. I don’t have anything left!”</p><p>She was openly sobbing at that point, and shaking hard enough that her hot chocolate was threatening to spill. Akira reached across the table to place his hands atop of hers. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea things had gotten that bad.”</p><p>He’d known she was struggling, but had thought it was just a matter of the same kind of belt-tightening everyone went through from time to time. Yoshizawa had always been so cheerful, so irrepressibly upbeat… Akira had never considered just what kind of pain that façade could hide.</p><p>No. That was a blatant lie. He knew <em>precisely</em> how far you could go to keep other people from seeing how fucked up your own life was. In the silence between her sobs, he could hear the faint <em>drip, drip, drip</em> into the buckets upstairs. It seemed they both shared a habit of <em>not</em> sharing how bad things were.</p><p>But even that comparison wasn’t fair, was it? It may have taken two years to save up for that dishwasher in the kitchen, but he’d never had to skip doing laundry to pad the fund. Futaba had just sicced him after some new release in Akihabara earlier that day, and the last thing on his mind had been the cost of his train fare. Maybe his roof was leaking, but at least he still <em>had</em> one. His little family was far from flourishing, but at least they weren’t hungry.</p><p>A free plate of curry on her birthday seemed a pittance, in retrospect.</p><p>“How short are you?” he asked.</p><p>She looked up, blinking at him with red-rimmed red eyes. “Akira-san?”</p><p>“For this month, I mean. How much do you need?”</p><p>Yoshizawa sat back, pulling her hands out from beneath his, her face twisting into a scowl. “No!” she barked, with a fierce shake of her head. “I won’t ask that of you! This is my fault, Akira-san. I appreciate the offer, but this is not <em>your</em> responsibility. If anything, it’s less than that; you even warned me before I moved in!”</p><p>“I don’t think that absolves me. Someone had to warn you; it’s not like they put ‘under an extortion racket’ as a selling point in the brochures.”</p><p>“It’s not like I’m smart enough to let that stop me,” she argued. “‘Respectable businesswoman?’ I’m not even close enough to qualify as a joke.”</p><p>“Don’t say that.”</p><p>“Why lie now?” she shot back, voice rising with every word. “I’ve failed at absolutely everything I’ve ever tried to do! Gymastics? Washed out. College? Dropped out. Years of doing odd jobs, saving every yen? Up in smoke, for the sake of finding a half-dozen part-time students in almost as many months. I blew my own life savings, all for the tattered remnants of some stupid, childish dream!”</p><p>“Stop that,” Akira growled.</p><p>“Stop <em>what?!</em>” she practically screamed in reply.</p><p>“Stop putting yourself down!” he yelled right back. “Stop talking like you’re not the most inspiring person I’m ever going to meet!”</p><p>At some point along the way, they had both risen to their feet. She was staring at him from across the table with an expression of enraged bewilderment. “Who are you even <em>talking</em> about?”</p><p>“<em>Sumire Yoshizawa!</em>” Akira roared.</p><p>She flinched back as if struck. Her anger faltered, turning wholly into confusion. She fell back into her seat with a muted thud, blinking repeatedly. “What…” she shook her head. “What did you just say?”</p><p>Akira returned to his own bench, anger sublimating away. “Kasumi Yoshizawa,” he said at last. Even as he felt like he was crumbling under the weight of his own resignation, Akira managed a tone that was almost conversational.</p><p>Elbows propped on top of the table, she let her face fall into her hands. “That’s my name, Akira-san, but… For a second I thought you said…” She groaned. “I’m so tired. I’ve started hearing things, again.”</p><p>“I’m sorry I shouted,” he offered quietly.</p><p>She nodded. “I am, too. Why in the world were we arguing? I should be <em>thanking</em> you.”</p><p>“We’re both exhausted,” he replied.</p><p>“I suppose that’s true.”</p><p>Silence fell between them. Only the ticking of the clock in the corner could be heard. The rain had stopped.</p><p>“I wish…” she trailed off, running the pad of one finger around the rim of her mug. “I wish I felt the same way about myself that you seem to think I should.”</p><p>He sighed. “I’m probably going to regret trying this at one in the morning, but I’d like you to answer a question for me.”</p><p>Her head tilted inquiringly. “Okay. What question is that?”</p><p>“What do you see when you look at me?”</p><p>She blinked, and turned her head away. “Well, I…”</p><p>“No,” he said, his voice quiet, but firm. “We just finished screaming at each other; you don’t have to worry about making me mad. We’re both tired. You’re wearing my clothes. You literally can’t look away from someone to answer that question, and all I want is honesty.”</p><p>Yoshizawa glanced up, away again, and then slowly met his gaze at last. “I see… glasses.”</p><p>He smiled a bit. “That’s a good start.”</p><p>“A friendly smile. Dark hair I’ve always wanted to—” She trailed off, biting her lip.</p><p>“To?” he prompted, schooling away his grin.</p><p>She didn’t look away, but for a moment she did screw her eyes tightly shut. “…to run my fingers through!” she spat out in a rush.</p><p>“Was that so hard?” he asked. “In the spirit of fairness, I like your hair, too.”</p><p>She growled a little. It was adorable. “I thought we were being honest? My hair is a mess right now.”</p><p>He shook his head. “No lie. I’d never seen it down, before. I actually… like it more this way.”</p><p>“You mean that,” she said. It was not a question, even if she sounded a little taken aback.</p><p>Akira shrugged. “Fair is fair.”</p><p>“I see an honest person,” she said, “even if you do like to joke and tease. But I see someone who’s always tried to make me laugh, and never put me down.”</p><p>He nodded, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. It was closer to cold, now, but still creamy and sweet.</p><p>“I see a café manager who’s almost as good as he thinks.”</p><p>“Now who’s teasing?” Akira asked, toasting her with his mug.</p><p>Yoshizawa stuck her tongue out at him. “Almost as smart-mouthed, too.”</p><p>She was silent for a long moment. Deciding he’d heard enough to make his counterpoint, he started to say, “Now, why—” but trailed off at a shake of her head.</p><p>“One last thing,” she said. “It’s not always there, but that’s why it’s important.”</p><p>He offered her back the floor with a brief incline of his head.</p><p>“Sometimes…” she began slowly, drawing out the word, “I see the boy I knew in high school, who tried so hard to be bitter, and had every reason to. I see the boy who never let <em>anyone</em> see how very much he hurt.” She reached out, and placed her left hand atop his right, where it sat clasped around his mug. “But I always, always, always see the good man that boy became.”</p><p>Her hand squeezed his. He ran his thumb over the back of her knuckles. Small as they were, both gestures were more powerful than any words that could be said in their place.</p><p>“Well,” Akira managed, his voice suddenly thick. He cleared his throat. “Before I forget the point I was trying to make, thank you.”</p><p>She nodded, blushing a bit. “You’re welcome. It was the truth.”</p><p>“Yes. But here’s the rub: I don’t see myself that way.”</p><p>Yoshizawa cocked her head to one side. “…you don’t manage the café? Should I warn Sakura-san?”</p><p>Her hand was still in his. He took the opportunity to flick his thumbnail across the back of one of her fingers in playful retaliation. “You know that’s not what I meant. I am a convicted criminal. I made it through high school by the skin of my teeth. I never got into college, and the only skill besides sarcasm I have to speak of boils down to sous chef in a café.”</p><p>She frowned at him. “That’s not even modesty; that’s self-deprecation. You’re so much more than that.”</p><p>He nodded. “Yes. And standing on my doorstep at midnight, drenched to the bone, you’re still the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”</p><p>Yoshizawa froze. “I… That’s…”</p><p>“You won’t let me put myself down,” said Akira. “Let me at least do the same for you.”</p><p>She slumped, her forehead hitting the table with a muffled thud. “I don’t know whether to cry, melt, or <em>punch you</em> right now.” Once again, her left hand squeezed his right. “But you made your point.” She raised her head, a faint red mark half-hidden behind her bangs. Her right hand swiped across them, in a habitual gesture he’d been long familiar with. Even with her hair a half-dry self-professed wreck, those strands still snapped back into place as though held magnetically. “Whether I <em>accept</em> your point or not…” She fought back a yawn. “I’ll decide when I don’t feel dead on my feet.”</p><p>“I think that might be wise,” Akira replied, biting down on his own gaping yawn. They hadn’t finished their conversation, let alone solved any problems, but the night had finally caught up to them both. “If you’re willing to table everything else, can I at least offer you a place to sleep tonight?”</p><p>“I… don’t want to get caught at the studio tomorrow. I mean today,” she amended groggily. “So… okay.”</p><p>“My room is upstairs. It’s not ideal, but I do have a couch, so you can have my bed.” He wouldn’t wish a night in one of Leblanc’s booths on his worst enemy. He’d tried that, back when the roof above his apartment first started leaking, and he’d preferred insomnia ever since.</p><p>Yoshizawa managed to rouse some stubbornness, even as she drooped from fatigue. “I refuse to put you out of your own bed on my account.”</p><p>“The couch is perfectly comfortable. I’ll be fine.”</p><p>“If it’s perfectly comfortable, then there’s no reason it won’t be perfect for me.”</p><p>He opened his mouth to continue, but a warning pressure on his fingers quelled him. Somehow, they were still holding hands. She leveled a finger at him. “No more argument. I will sleep in the alley first. Just see if I won’t.”</p><p>There was no more proper response Akira could muster through his exhaustion aside from laughter. He reached over with his own free hand, patting hers where it gripped his. “Okay, okay. I concede. Since when were you more stubborn than me?”</p><p>“I always have been,” she corrected. She smiled, tired and wistful. “Just not on my own behalf. Just like you.”</p><p>“Yeah. I guess you’re right. My little perspective exercise backfired, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“I think a better metaphor would be that it turned out to be a grenade.”</p><p>“I can’t argue with that.” With no small reluctance, he withdrew his hand and stood, pushing himself up from the booth. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. That whole tactic was a pretty low blow.”</p><p>“You’re forgiven.” She came to her feet beside him. “You meant well.”</p><p>“I also meant what I said.”</p><p>“I know,” she replied, smiling softly. “I always have. Because I refuse to believe that everyone who sets eyes on you doesn’t fall in love, just like I did. Normal is what you see in the mirror, after all.”</p><p>He swayed against the side of the booth, only just avoiding falling in. “Woman, you don’t fight fair,” he grumbled.</p><p>"I learned from the best," she replied.</p><p>Akira had no comeback to that. He let out a long, slow breath, running a hand through his hair.  “Follow me. I’ve got some spare blankets you can use.”</p><p>They had both gotten some answers from their conversation this night. Not to all the questions, or even the most important ones. But they still had time, Akira wagered, and he would offer Yoshizawa as much shelter as she was willing to accept.</p><p>Even if his roof had holes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Hide and Seek</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>4/1/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Early Morning</strong></p><p> </p><p>Kasumi woke with a strangled gasp.</p><p>For a single, breathless moment, she didn’t know where she was. She saw an unfamiliar ceiling of white fiberglass tiles, and walls painted in a uniform thunderhead grey.</p><p>She sat up, blinking away the fog of sleep. There was a set of shelves on the wall opposite her, full of books, movies, and games, interspersed with a few figurines and trinkets that seemed to her haphazardly placed. Some posters filled the rest of the space, hung in simple plastic frames.</p><p>Turning to the right, she saw a low railing, fronted by a wide chest of drawers. A gap in the rail revealed a set of steps leading down in the far corner of the room. A closet or wardrobe appeared to have been added inside an extension from the wall at her back. Leaning forward, she could see that area was covered by several narrow folding doors. In the corner beside her, formed between the space for the closet and the outer wall, there was an entertainment stand topped with a modest flat-screen TV. Then came the couch she was sitting on, upholstered with soft, smooth polyester in a darkish shade of blue.</p><p>Turning to her left, there was a standing three-tier lamp beside the couch, followed by a computer desk in the corner. The final wall was covered in frosted glass windows, set above a narrow bed.</p><p>By the time her survey had completed its full circuit, Kasumi’s heartbeat was back to normal in her chest. Of course, it might have jumped a <em>little</em> when she saw the figure lying in the bed. Akira was on his left side, his face bare and relaxed in sleep. Above the quilted comforter, his right arm shifted slightly with every steady breath.</p><p>She pushed aside her own blanket, smiling at the slightly ridiculous sentai cast adorned thereupon. She shouldn’t judge, of course; it had been comfortable and warm. Bracing herself on the edge of the couch, she stretched her legs out as far as they would go, pointing her toes at the opposite wall and holding to a count of ten. Planting her feet, she reached her arms for the ceiling and repeated the same effort, relishing the feel of the pull deep inside her shoulders and back.</p><p>Standing, she clasped her hands behind her and leaned back as far as she could, her twined fingers reaching the middle of her thighs as she counted to ten for the third time. Finally, legs straight, she bent forward double, fingers grasping the arches of her stocking feet, counting to the pulse of her own heartbeat, burning in her ankles and calves.</p><p>Back upright, she twisted left, then right, and released a small, satisfied sigh. She wasn’t nearly as limber as she’d been at her physical peak, but it still felt satisfying to stretch, especially after she woke up.</p><p>Kasumi glanced to her left, considering for a moment as she chewed on the inside of her bottom lip. <em>Oh, well</em>, she decided. She might never get another chance like this.</p><p>Tiptoeing across the hardwood floor, she crouched down beside the bed, arms folded in front of her knees. Face to face, close enough to feel the heat of Akira’s breath, she studied him silently. He looked different at rest. When he was awake, he was always so mindful, in every sense of the word. Composed. Considering. Guarded. Everyone looked more peaceful asleep, but in him the change was… profound. Almost breathtaking.</p><p>And he’d called <em>her</em> beautiful?</p><p>Blushing at the memory, she stood and turned, walking to the stairs. Her clothes from yesterday were pinned along a line strung above the dresser to dry. A cursory check showed that they were most of the way there, though the thicker fabric of the hoodie was still damp to the touch. Pulling her phone from the pocket of her borrowed sweats, she checked the time. 6:02. Not surprising, she supposed; she was an early riser by habit, and the windows were still dark. She crept downstairs, not wanting to disturb her host.</p><p>Kasumi found it more than passing strange to have Café Leblanc to herself. Quiet and dark, without even the TV on, it still smelled of coffee… and, perhaps by association, him. She would be willing to crawl across broken glass for the feelings she connected with that scent.</p><p>It was hard to encapsulate the comfort she’d found here over the past six months. She had spent so long feeling anxious, on edge, she’d actually forgotten how it felt to <em>not</em>. She’d told Akira that she felt normal when she spoke to him, that he was the only person that made sense. It wasn’t really a lie, per se; complete strangers didn’t count.</p><p>Kasumi had always been outgoing, but what confused her was why that was so hard. Other people were exhausting, and even as that simple fact was impossible to deny, for some reason she thought they shouldn’t be. And that was just the strangers she met every day, like trading impersonal pleasantries with clerks at the convenience store. A conversation with almost anyone she knew, like her students or their parents, was an entirely different ordeal. Just hearing someone say her name sometimes made her feel like she’d run a thousand-meter sprint.</p><p>But the tiresomeness wasn’t the worst of it. Sometimes, in some of the strangest ways, people around her just stopped making <em>sense</em>.</p><p>It had started back in high school. There were many little things; some so small she’d only noticed them after the fact. Offhand mentions of things she couldn’t know, or things she’d never done. Whispers from her classmates, ranging from absurd to cruel. Pinched looks on her teachers’ faces whenever she turned an assignment in.</p><p>In hindsight, she was convinced that that was what had chipped away at her passion and her path in life. Her third-place finish at the summer qualifiers when she’d been fifteen proved to be the high-water mark of her gymnastics career. Shujin had been narrowly convinced not to revoke her scholarship outright, but it had not been renewed the next year. In all honesty, she hadn’t regretted transferring; she’d known her supportive Senpai, and only friend, wouldn’t be back either way. Her confidence and skills had deteriorated from there, to the point where her first year of college saw her fail to so much as make the team. She had promptly resigned from Coach Hiraguchi’s tutelage in disgrace. By eighteen, her gymnastics career was done.</p><p>Without that guiding light, it had gotten harder to ignore the same little frustrations that had followed her for years, and they eventually became too much to bear. The persistent stress of it all had been why she’d dropped out of university after just one year. It was easier to avoid the pain and set out on her own, if only for her peace of mind.</p><p>It even worked, for a time. The annoyances had tapered off, only to be replaced by some things that were… not so little, instead. While otherwise in perfect health, she’d once twisted her ankle a short time after she had first moved out on her own. The hospital had been hopelessly confused by some error on her new National Health Insurance card. Thankfully, she’d still had an older copy from when she’d been on her father’s household plan, and that had been enough to get her the X-ray and brace she’d needed. Feeling better safe than sorry, the old card was still in her purse, for the odd checkup or trip to the pharmacy.</p><p>And every once in a while, she’d been legitimately terrified. No fewer than three bank tellers at two different banks had threatened to report her to the police. They’d claimed she was attempting fraud, that her signatures didn’t match the name on her accounts, even as they repeated back to her exactly what she’d seen written down.</p><p>She’d learned to live on cash after that, and never try to deposit any checks. Needless to say, that was awkward and inconvenient in this day and age. The only credit card she’d ever possessed was one that you could recharge at a machine or convenience store with cash, used at absolute necessity.</p><p>But all of that put together: every awkward pause, every sidelong look, every squinting double-take at the hiragana when she signed her name, was nothing against the worst part of it all. She might as well have stubbed her toe, compared to how she missed her mom and dad.</p><p>None of them, herself included, had been the same after her sister passed. That was only natural; a part of each of them had died that day. But it hadn’t stopped with her father’s hovering, or her mother throwing herself headlong into her career. Strange looks. Stilted conversations. Loaded pauses. Fretting over nonsense things. It only got worse as she’d grown up, and eventually moved out. At some point it simply started hurting more to talk to them than it hurt <em>not</em> to. The pain of longing for them was marginally less than the pain of their inability to understand one another anymore.</p><p>That had been Kasumi’s life, for going on ten years. A soul grown numb to awkwardness. Cutting herself into smaller pieces, just to avoid the pain. Trying to assemble something like a life out of the parts that didn’t hurt. A constant, existential flinch.</p><p>She shook herself from her morbid thoughts, taking a long look around Leblanc. She knew Akira usually had the café open before seven, but last night had been hard on him. Still, he might be up soon, and she owed him for allowing her to stay. There wasn’t much obvious for her to do; like his apartment above, downstairs was already simple and tidily kept.</p><p>Kasumi needed something to do, though, or she’d never stop thinking about her studio, and if she could ever see it again. Or, even worse, if that applied to <em>all</em> of Yongen.</p><p>If it applied to Leblanc…</p><p>She bit her lip, looking about for anything productive to pass the time. Her gaze rested on the kitchen, and she considered it for a moment. The bento she’d made for Akira back in their high school days was a vivid memory; how could she ever forget her first time cooking for someone besides her family? The only question was what to make. She couldn’t afford to repay him much, so: something simple and cheap. This <em>was</em> a restaurant, so she didn’t want to use too much of anything and leave it in short supply when customers came, so: ingredients that were abundant at hand. There would be plenty around to make curry, of course, but she had tasted <em>his</em>. There were some things you just left to the masters.</p><p>Deciding it couldn’t hurt to look and see if anything sprang to mind, Kasumi began checking the cupboards and the refrigerator, careful not to make much noise.</p><p>“Hmm… that might work…” she muttered to herself. One more thing, if she could find it… “Right!” she whispered excitedly. She gathered the ingredients she would need, glad to see there was plenty to spare of each, and nothing that even her limited means couldn’t afford to replace. She set to work.</p><p>She tried to keep the clatter of dishes and sizzling of pans as quiet as she could, but it was only a few minutes later that she could hear faint footsteps from the room above. Not long after that, they started coming down the stairs.</p><p>“Good morning, Akira-san,” she greeted, trying on a smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to make you breakfast as thanks.”</p><p>He blinked, still a little bleary, at the work in progress. “Good morning,” he managed eventually. “Something smells good.”</p><p>“That’s the bacon, I’ll bet. I didn’t use too much,” she hastened to assure him, “since, well, none of this is mine.”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Akira replied. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair was even more of a mess than usual, and he’d apparently left his glasses upstairs, but even the faint little smile he wore made Kasumi feel like the butter melting in the pan.</p><p>He sidled into the kitchen with her, close enough to observe without getting in the way. Her body was cooking on autopilot while her brain processed the rest. Lucky for her the sharpest tool she needed was a bread knife, and it didn’t take much skill to crack an egg.</p><p>“You are making enough for two, right?” Akira asked.</p><p>She glanced at him over her shoulder, shaking her head. “I didn’t want to use too much.”</p><p>A long arm reached out, and he tapped her once on each shoulder. “Consider yourself deputized. Full kitchen rights, from this day forth.” He slipped behind her, gathering a second helping of all the ingredients she’d picked out, all with practiced ease.</p><p>“Wouldn’t that be Sakura-san’s prerogative?” she asked. “And are you sure you don’t want to taste it, first?”</p><p>“You managed to reproduce the flavor of Leblanc curry, in a bento, by <em>accident</em>, at age fifteen. If anything, I’d be worried you were going to take my job,” he said, nudging her gently with his elbow. “Here,” he added, holding up a plate, “looks like that one’s done.”</p><p>Kasumi managed to draw enough of her focus away from Akira’s proximity to realize he was right. A quick lift and flick of a spatula and she’d transferred the meal out of the pan. Moving like a pair of clockwork gears, he put the plate on the shelf behind him while she returned the pan back to the stove. She turned to prepare another slice of bread, and no sooner had she gotten that ready than she heard the sizzle of a fresh pad of butter and slice of bacon in the pan, Akira having anticipated her next step.</p><p>“Have you made eggs in a blanket before?” she wondered.</p><p>“Not quite, but it seems simple enough. I think it’s safe to say we both know our way around a kitchen.”</p><p>“High praise, from you,” she said, winking at him as she flipped the bread.</p><p>Before she could even reach for it, he offered her an egg, cradling it in both hands with a playful bow like he was presenting a holy relic.</p><p>She snatched it away with a huff. “I should crack this over your head.”</p><p>“What happened to conserving ingredients?”</p><p>“Collateral damage,” she replied, though the egg found the pan, in the end.</p><p>Their repartee faded while the second serving cooked. It was Akira that broke the silence. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.</p><p>“Mmhmm,” she nodded, turning the bacon with her spatula. “I did. Thank you.”</p><p>“This is where I say it’s all part of the service for our regulars, but I think I might be stretching that joke a bit thin.”</p><p>“Maybe a little,” she conceded. She bit the inside of her bottom lip. “After all, customers can usually pay.”</p><p>“True,” he said quietly.</p><p>Easy banter forgotten, Kasumi felt her expression fall.</p><p>“How about we create a new membership tier?” Akira asked. Kasumi glanced up. He was staring fixedly at the frying pan, and there was a strange note in his tone.</p><p>With a flick of his wrist, he reached out to turn off the stove. Taking a step and a half backwards, he left the kitchen. He pressed himself against the furthest end of Leblanc’s counter, leaning heavily on both arms.</p><p>“Akira-san?” she prompted. She felt a sudden need to hold her breath.</p><p>Two dark grey eyes fixed on her. “Would you like to try girlfriend?” There was a nervous aspect to his crooked smile.</p><p>She blinked.</p><p>“I know I’m going about this wrong, but after last night, I don’t think it’s a surprise for either of us.”</p><p>She blinked again. Her cheeks were wet.</p><p>“We’ve both got problems, and I don’t know how to fix them. I don’t know where we go from here. But one thing I <em>am</em> sure of is that I would like you to be there.”</p><p>She swiped hurriedly at her cheeks with a hand, and surged forward to wrap her arms around his waist. “Would you just shut up long enough for me to say ‘yes’?”</p><p>Akira choked out a laugh that she could feel through his chest. She felt a trembling hand begin to stroke the back of her head. “It would be my pleasure,” he said.</p><p>The moment was broken by the sound of shattering glass.</p><p>They both turned, wide-eyed, towards the noise. Where a single small pane had been before, an arm was reaching through Leblanc’s front door, backlit by the faint morning light. It groped for a moment before finding the knob, and then the formerly locked door swung open from the outside. Indifferent to circumstance, the bell above rang with a mockingly welcoming chime.</p><p>Three men stepped through, one at a time, their shoes crackling as they stepped on shards of broken glass. The first had both ears pierced, studs on each side of his nose, and a head of long, brown hair with frosted tips. The second wore sunglasses in spite of the early hour, and ran a hand over his shaved head as he looked around. The third was a gangly kid, almost certainly still in his teens, his black hair styled in an unflattering bowl cut. All three wore sport coats with mismatched pants, and partially unbuttoned shirts beneath.</p><p>Everyone in Yongen-Jaya would have known what that meant, but for Kasumi, there was a wholly different breed of terror that the sight of these three inspired in the pit of her stomach. For the last several months, they’d been her studio’s collection crew.</p><p>The leader grinned widely and licked his lips, which called grotesque attention to another piercing through his tongue. “Well, well, well. Boys, would you look at who we found?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- - <em>This Above All</em> - -</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>4/1/2026</strong><br/><strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Morning</strong></p><p> </p><p>Ann sipped her mocha, savoring the rich sweetness of the chocolate in one hand as she thumbed through her smartphone with the other. Through the wall of glass on the second floor of the Shibuya Tsutaya Starbucks, she could observe the morning rush across the Scramble from a safe remove. At this hour, it was even quiet enough inside, before the tourists and nightlife descended, to take stock of her efforts over the past few days in relative peace.</p><p>It wouldn’t be fair to say that Director Yoshizawa had sent her on a wild goose chase after their meeting, but the man had been cagey about some of the details of his daughter’s disappearance, and that was in addition to the whole host of questions he simply hadn’t had any answers to at all. Ann had texted him several times over the past week, either to confirm particulars or get answers to inquiries she hadn’t thought of in the brief time they’d met face-to-face. If not for the fact that he was always prompt in reply, and hadn’t once told her something demonstrably false (she’d tested him; it was only rational), Ann would be worried he was leading her on as part of some multi-layered revenge conspiracy with the rest of her bosses at SNN.</p><p>She’d never expected finding a lone girl among metropolitan Tokyo’s thirty-seven million souls to be easy, but searching for Sumire Yoshizawa was providing Ann with an unanticipated degree of consternation.</p><p>As a matter of fact, Ann was convinced by now that “disappeared” wasn’t even the right word to describe the girl she was looking for. Sad to say, “estranged” seemed a much more apt term. She was searching for a grown woman, not a petulant teenager that had run away from home on a whim. Ann wasn’t looking for a girl crashed on a friend’s couch with her cellphone turned off in a fit of pique, but rather an independent adult who had, if Ann was reading between the lines objectively, drifted out of touch with her family over the course of several years.</p><p>Of course, even that narrative was complicated by the most worrisome of the few details Director Yoshizawa had been able to provide. That being: his daughter was an apparently undiagnosed victim of an idyllic delusion. That specific tidbit solved any mystery whatsoever as to why her family hadn’t just called the police to report her missing.</p><p>Ann had only the vaguest memories of the girl from the time they’d both spent at Shujin Academy. They’d been in different years, and Kamoshida’s arrest had only added more fuel the worst of the rumors surrounding Ann, exacerbating her isolation. After Shiho had transferred, Ann’s social contact with the rest of the student body had been functionally nonexistent. As such, it was hard for Ann to even conjure an independent image of the redhead she was chasing without conflating it with the smiling picture the director had given her from his wallet. Suffice it to say, learning that the girl believed herself to be her deceased twin sister had come as something of a shock.</p><p>In a strange way, the least surprising thing in the whole affair was the fact that Yoshizawa had managed to hide her condition for so long. Psychotic breakdowns and mental shutdowns were easy for anyone to spot, and idyllic delusions were different only inasmuch as they didn’t kill or debilitate their victims. Some people started showing up for work at dream jobs they’d not attained. Some insinuated themselves into the lives of long-sought romantic partners, who were surprised at best, and not inclined to reciprocate otherwise. There were those who experienced unprompted, radical changes in behavior and demeanor, like Ushimaru-sensei at Shujin, who’d shown up one day late in her second year and, out of the blue, been transformed from a chalk-throwing grouch into a kindly man eager to interact with his students. There were also cases of victims who were convinced dead relatives or lovers had returned, or had never been gone at all, unswayable by any evidence to the contrary.</p><p>Sumire Yoshizawa might have been caught, had her case not been such an odd combination. What was so ideal about <em>becoming</em> your dead sister, after all? Sad to say, Ann’s best guess was that anyone who’d noticed had written Sumire off as garden-variety insane. She’d probably escaped notice this long thanks in no small part to the far more insidious, prevalent, and – Ann was hesitant to contemplate – newsworthy cases that had been roaring to a frenzied peak in Tokyo at the exact same time as Yoshizawa’s behavior had been most likely to call attention to itself.</p><p>And that was Ann’s greatest frustration. She was pursuing someone who was still, in their own way, utterly and perfectly <em>rational</em>. After a week of searching, the signs of that were plain to see. Sumire Yoshizawa had, slowly but steadily, excised every aspect of her life that would call attention to her delusion. In dropping out of college in her first year, formal education pursuits ceased mere months prior to when she might have assumed responsibility from her parents for things like registration and tuition as a legal adult. Her participation in organized, competitive gymnastics had ended not long before that. Bank records persisted for a time, until she’d stopped making deposits, and then withdrawn all her assets shortly thereafter. Medical records since she’d become an adult were legally private, but Director Yoshizawa had confirmed to Ann that he’d been allowing the sporadic uses of his daughter’s old NHI card to persist.</p><p>That had been Ann’s best lead to date, but an otherwise healthy twenty-five-year-old with no prescriptions and an interest in avoiding hospitals for anything not life-threatening didn’t leave much of a trace. All Ann had been able to glean was that Sumire had remained in the greater Tokyo area, and had probably lived near Harajuku for a decent stretch of the previous two years. Alas, that trail had dead-ended around last summer, and hadn’t yet reappeared.</p><p>Ann hadn’t even managed to find a phone number. According to Director Yoshizawa, the last number he’d had started ringing to an out-of-service message over a year ago. That had happened previously, he’d admitted, in the gradually lengthening intervals between contacts from their daughter, but this gap had persisted far longer than any before it.</p><p>It wasn’t a coincidence that Ann had called her own parents three times in the past week.</p><p>She dropped her phone to the narrow table that ran the length of the window overlooking Shibuya Crossing. Slouching on her stool, she dropped her chin into her palm, drumming her fingers against her cheek as she observed the bustling crowds below. She might as well have called this the most productive method of searching at her disposal, for all the results the rest of her efforts had produced. “Some intrepid reporter I am,” she muttered under her breath.</p><p>There were still avenues she’d not fully explored yet, and that was the real reason why Ann was sitting here nursing a chain-store mocha instead of a sweet treat from her usual haunts. Glancing at the time, she tried not to frown. Her source was running even later than he usually did. She considered sending another text, but before she’d even had the chance to open LINE, the stool next to her was pulled out from beneath the tall counter with a screech of metal on cheap hardwood. She flinched at the sound, glaring at the face, boyish in spite of its layer of stubble, which heaved a sigh as its owner sat down at her side.</p><p>“God, Mishima-kun. Aren’t salarymen supposed to look like death warmed over at the <em>end</em> of the day?”</p><p>“Hello to you, too, Takamaki-san,” Yuuki Mishima replied, half-covering a yawn. “I got your text.”</p><p>“Obviously,” she replied.</p><p>He leveled a look at her, though tired eyes didn’t make for great intimidation tools, and his visage wasn’t particularly fearsome to begin with. “I don’t have to be here, you know. Now, what half-baked internet rumor do you need me to debunk this time? I’m going to be late for work.”</p><p>“It’s not even 7:30, and we could spit on Shibuya Station from here,” she countered. “I didn’t drag you <em>that</em> far out of your way.”</p><p>“No, but it seemed nicer than telling you I simply don’t want to be here.”</p><p>“Don’t be like that, Mishima-kun. You’re my go-to source for I.T.!”</p><p>He shook his head. “You realize that says a lot more about you than it does about me?”</p><p>“That’s the modest air of an ideal Japanese businessman I can appreciate,” she replied, toasting him with her mocha.</p><p>“Did you really ask me here just to mock me, or did you overdose on hair dye?” Mishima grumbled. “I honestly can’t tell.”</p><p>“It is <em>not</em>—” Ann snarled. One hand went towards her head involuntarily before she managed to cut herself off. She lowered her hand, brushing at the shoulder of her blouse in a vain attempt to disguise her previous reaction, schooling her voice back to something below a shout with a fierce will. “Nevermind. Look, I’m sorry. You don’t cultivate many good tech sources on the beat for Kasumigaseki, and I need some expert know-how.”</p><p>“I’m a web designer for a corporate marketing firm, Takamaki-san,” he said wearily. “I make templates for the websites used by home-office startups and your grandmother’s book club.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And that means I’m a lot less Neo than I am Hirotaka Nifuji.”</p><p>Ann scoffed. “We can certainly agree you’re no Keanu Reeves, past or present. But I’m not playing your Narumi Momose in this analogy.” She might be in over her head a bit in the bowels of the internet, but Ann would bet she could still match anyone tit-for-tat in pop culture.</p><p>The fact that Shiho had started dabbling with cosplay as a coping mechanism in college, and had used that particular manga as a gateway drug to bring Ann along for the ride, was none of Mishima’s damn business, however.</p><p>“I can barely contain my disappointment,” he deadpanned.</p><p>“Still, you were the president of Shujin’s computer club your third year,” Ann pointed out.</p><p>“That club existed because Inui-sensei was addicted to online gambling and was willing to let us play video games in exchange for a cut of the budget, not to mention our silence. Besides, knowing SQL doesn’t make me Alibaba.”</p><p>“Wait, you lost me,” said Ann, filing away the Inui tidbit on sheer journalistic reflex. “The sequel to what? And who’s Alibaba?”</p><p>Mishima sighed. “Someone who’d actually be able to help you, but forget it. What do you even need, anyway?”</p><p>“I’m looking for someone, and all the normal tricks I’ve got are striking out,” Ann explained. “I’m hoping there might be a few darker corners of the internet I’m unfamiliar with that might be of use.”</p><p>Mishima looked doubtful. “I’m here, so I might as well bite. Who are you looking for, and why have they been hard to find?”</p><p>“A girl who went to Shujin with us. For a little while, anyway. Sumire Yoshizawa.”</p><p>Mishima spent a thoughtful moment observing the Scramble and sipping his coffee. His eyes lit in recognition. “Oh, you mean the Mad Gymnast?”</p><p>Ann blinked. Then she scowled. “Seriously?”</p><p>He shrugged. “That’s what a lot of the guys on the volleyball team called her, the year she was there. What, didn’t you know about the fact that she had a few screws loose because her sister died, and tried to pretend she was her?”</p><p>Anger drowned out most of the satisfaction Ann might have otherwise found in a single-source confirmation of her theory. “That sounds like a pretty appalling reason for an already disgusting nickname.”</p><p>Mishima didn’t look particularly phased by her reaction. “You were there, Takamaki-san. That’s what Shujin <em>was</em>.”</p><p>That… was a depressingly salient point. “Do you remember anything else? Besides a nasty epithet.”</p><p>“She was cute, if you liked her type. Some of the guys on the team bragged about trying to hook up with her. I’ll spare you the jokes about pop psychology and twins they came up with. I don’t think that’s what you’re after.”</p><p>“I don’t find it particularly relevant, no,” Ann growled, resisting the urge to crush her coffee cup while imagining it was the necks of everyone she’d ever met who’d possessed the combination of a Y chromosome and tartan pants. Well, <em>almost</em> everyone.</p><p>“I figured. That all stopped when she started hanging around that criminal transfer from our class, anyway.”</p><p>Ann blinked. <em>Speak of the devil</em>… “What did he have to do with Yoshizawa?”</p><p>“The usual things, if you believed the rumor mill,” Mishima said, making a circle with his right thumb and forefinger and pointing at it expressively with his left. “Personally, I think she just got close enough to keep the worst of the creeps away. She was crazy, but that doesn’t mean she was stupid.”</p><p>Innuendo notwithstanding, that made a certain amount of sense. Ann hadn’t been close to Akira Kurusu, unless you counted sitting in adjacent desks. There had been many lunches spent with both of them taking refuge in the classroom, but they’d been mutually content in giving one another privacy.</p><p>Kurusu’s reputation at Shujin had been almost as intimidating as her own, if for entirely different reasons. It had been bad enough to permeate even Ann’s social quarantine, after all. Hell, there had still been frequent bragging during her third year from those who claimed to have braved the violent criminal’s wrath. Even by Shujin’s standards, she hadn’t found those lies particularly credible.</p><p>Ann had been wired to believe the exact opposite of everything she heard at Shujin on pure principle, but she also had the unique advantage of an encounter in the rain with an anonymous, handsome youth, and a gobsmacked stare that had made the fledgling model within her soar. First impressions aside, she remembered a boy who had been right more than he’d been wrong when called upon, and sat behind her for a year without so much as a spitball in her hair to prove his delinquent bona fides at the expense of a fellow outcast.</p><p>More substantively, Ann remembered an eavesdropper, a glass of water at Big Bang Burger, a strangely sympathetic ear, and a conversation that had kept her from going through with the worst decision of her life. <em>I’m bad to the bone</em>, he’d said, with such caustic bitterness that she’d had no choice but to believe the exact opposite ever since.</p><p>“I get the picture, Mishima-kun. Thankfully, I didn’t ask you here for rumors on who was or wasn’t trying to get into a first-year’s pants.” Ann sighed, endeavoring to ignore the omnipresent itching of her scalp without the age-old benefit of trying to tear her hair out in frustration. The wig was a pain to fix when she did that. “Simple fact is, Yoshizawa-san has managed to drop off the face of the Earth, and I was wondering if you had any tricks that might help turn her up.”</p><p>Mishima raised an eyebrow at that. “You’re way out of my league, then, unless you’re even worse with technology than I thought.” He brought out his phone. “Let’s see…”</p><p>Ann’s nostrils flared in frustration. “I do at least know how to do a Google search, Mishima-kun. I’m not incompetent.”</p><p>He snorted at that. Then he smirked, and tapped something on his phone. “She was into gymnastics, yeah?” he asked.</p><p>Bristling at his tone, Ann’s face twisted into a full-blown scowl. “You already know she was. Why?”</p><p>Mishima held his phone out for her to see.</p><p>Ann blinked. “Yoshizawa Gymnastics and Dance Studio?” She boggled, staring at the front page of a simple, if stylish, website. She nearly pulled Mishima off of his stool when she grabbed his wrist for a closer look. “How the hell did I miss this?!”</p><p>He yanked his arm free, grumbling even as Ann snatched up her own phone to search for herself.</p><p>Thirty seconds later, she’d found the same page, right there in living color. Ann glared at the device in her hand. There was only one expression she could think of to properly encapsulate her feelings in that moment. “The <em>fuck?</em>”</p><p>Mishima chuckled, and if there was a definite note of schadenfreude in the sound, Ann honestly couldn’t blame him. “Okay, Takamaki-san, let me justify <em>some</em> of your faith in me as an IT source,” he said. He tapped away at his phone for a few moments, and nodded. “Yeah. Funny as all that was, you’re not crazy. The domain for that site was registered less than a week ago, on the 26<sup>th</sup> of March. It’s brand new.”</p><p>For the sake of her own sanity, Ann scanned the results of a few more quick searches, but didn’t see anything else that had escaped what had been literally – or at least electronically – her first stop after returning to her desk from Director Yoshizawa’s office a week ago. With her ego salved, Ann did at least acknowledge the possibility of the name being a coincidence, but this remained the most promising lead she’d found. Hell, the very fact that this website had gone up so recently made it the first real break she’d had in this entire week!</p><p>“Thanks, Mishima-kun,” said Ann. She was excited enough to manage some honest gratitude, in spite of their differences. Digging through her purse, she slid a few bills onto the table between them. “Get something sweet from downstairs, yeah? You look like you could use it.”</p><p>“Your generosity is humbling,” he said dryly, though Ann caught him surveying the pastry displays on the floor below them as she walked off.</p><p>She paused next to the exit, taking one last look at the details on the website before closing the browser to call up her phone. Ann tapped in the number that had been listed, looking up to watch the bustle of Shibuya outside as she listened to it ring.</p><p>The call went to voicemail, in the automated tone and generic terms of a phone’s default. Well, it was still early, and she shouldn’t have expected it to be that easy after getting such a huge break. Hanging up and pocketing her phone without bothering to leave a message, Ann stepped outside. She headed for the station, stylish jeans and comfortable loafers no impediment to her long strides as she charted a course for the Keio Inokashira Line. Ann Takamaki, intrepid reporter, had a lead to run down in Yongen-Jaya.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>12/21/20: I'd just like to wish a merry Christmas and happy holidays to all. Be cheerful everyone, but please also be smart and be safe, as well.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Cost of Doing Business</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please be warned, this chapter earns this story’s M rating, far beyond a few f-bombs. There are implicit and explicit threats of sexual violence, a post-traumatic flashback, as well as thoughts and behavior indicative of severe depression and lack of self-worth.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>4/1/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Daytime</strong></p><p> </p><p>Ryuji Sakamoto hated this time of the month.</p><p>He wasn’t in a mood to do cartwheels on the average morning, of course, but flipping the calendar over to the first? That was about as appealing as natto. <em>Expired</em> natto. That had been <em>left out in the effin’ sun</em>.</p><p>Most of the time, the crews’ day-to-day was pretty relaxed. Maybe they had to show the flag a bit if the clients on a piece of turf were feeling uppity. Sometimes the other “departments” needed to borrow muscle for a day or two; usually the drug runners or pimps. Club openings or other “legit” events were actually cool: all they had to do was look intimidating while enjoying an open bar, as long as you didn’t let yourself get too trashed with the latter to do the former. On rare occasions, they had to put in the tedious days of legwork for expanding into a new neighborhood, but the simple fact was they were running out of neighborhoods that weren’t already under control. Well, ones where the cops and pols were paid off, anyway. Bribes weren’t cheap.</p><p>But whenever the month turned, every crew was busting their asses. There wasn’t a single group in a single neighborhood that wanted to explain to the Big Man why they’d failed to collect from all their stops, and that meant there were a lot of envelopes to pick up.</p><p>Effin’ Alibaba.</p><p>Ryuji hadn’t been a part of the crews when that shit show went down, but everyone who had <em>still</em> griped about how much easier it’d been to just let the bean counters watch the accounts online and make sure everything balanced out. Back then, the crews didn’t even have to go anywhere unless the number crunchers told them someone had failed to pay up.</p><p>Well, not anymore. Even working on the docks as a fresh-faced grunt too stupid to know he was even in an effin’ mafia yet, Ryuji had heard of how <em>livid</em> the Big Man had been. That hundred million yen had been repaid in cash or kind by everyone he could even pretend to blame for losing it… and the only thing worse than the Big Man’s temper was his imagination.</p><p>So now, Ryuji spent the first of every month walking around, taking payments, feeling his leg get sorer and stiffer with every step through one end of Tokyo’s ass or another. For the last few months, that had been Yongen-Jaya. At least it was smaller, if denser, than some of the other neighborhoods he’d been posted in. And he hadn’t had anyone on his list fail to pay yet.</p><p>That was when this job <em>really</em> sucked.</p><p>Oddly enough, there weren’t a ton of guys on the crews who did enjoy that part, so far as he knew. Simple fact was a lot of them were here for the same reasons as Ryuji. They were the castoffs and dregs of Japan, dropouts or guys who’d just never gotten half the chance they needed to do something else that let a man eat when he was hungry, sleep when he was tired, and pass the time in between in peace.</p><p>That wasn’t to say there weren’t more than a few who were inclined otherwise. It was a criminal organization, after all. When the wet work needed doing, there was rarely a shortage of hands that went up. And the Big Man made sure it got done.</p><p>Even the strike system was a part of that. When he’d first joined the crews, Ryuji had been confused by that bit, but one of the older guys had talked him through. It had nothing to do with generosity, and everything to do with numbers. Since the crews were doing all the collecting, they weren’t always available to go rattle a cage if someone was just feeling feisty, or shake a little… harder… if <em>that</em> was needed. So to make sure you had enough people to keep your turf in line, you had to have some idea of how much turf might need to be <em>put</em> there. Hence, the strikes. Yeah, it meant that spots got a free pass if times were tough, and nobody was exactly <em>happy</em> when the month’s count was a bit short. But if someone took their warning, they went on the list. And for the people on the list, the Big Man got to dream of what he might do if they came up short again.</p><p>Ryuji was pretty sure the guy got off on it, but even he wasn’t quite stupid enough to say so aloud.</p><p>Eff it. He’d deal with those thoughts later, if he even had to. Ryuji had had tougher courses to run; Yongen was pretty well tamed by now, a few years in. The people there knew the drill. Over time on the crews, you got a decent sense of who would pay quickly and who would give you trouble; who was resigned and who needed a little leaning on; who was frustrated by the expense and who was actually worried. Those last ones were the stops Ryuji dreaded, but he was pretty sure nobody on his beat today was at that point. Heck, three spots had paid early this month, one more than usual.</p><p>Ryuji shuffled down the street from the train station, long accustomed to his own awkward gait. The two new guys at his back, who he’d been showing around in preparation for his own transfer to a new crew in Shibuya next month, hadn’t said anything to his face about his limp. Either they both didn’t care, or he’d been around long enough now that people had learned better than to ask. Ryuji wasn’t sure what to think about the second possibility.</p><p>Slow pace or otherwise, they turned down the alley into the Yongen backstreets early enough that Ryuji didn’t have to worry about them falling behind to start the day. He liked to get this business over with as quickly as possible.</p><p>“Alright,” Ryuji said, turning to face his two charges. “I may be ridin’ herd on you guys, but I ain’t gonna walk you around like dogs on a leash. Either of you remember the first stop?”</p><p>“Bathhouse, up on the left,” one replied. His name was Kazuo, but everyone called him Jet. You didn’t use real names on the street if you could avoid it. That was another one of the rules.</p><p>Effin’ Alibaba.</p><p>“Laundromat’s right next door, too!” the second chipped in. He was still young enough to be absurdly cheerful for a gangster, Ryuji had learned. His nickname was Mouse, and Ryuji couldn’t even remember his real one.</p><p>“Right. Let’s get this—” Ryuji stopped, as all three of them turned to look down the alley towards the faint but unmistakable sound of breaking glass.</p><p>A second later, a black cat came tearing down the alley in the opposite direction from the noise. Mouse nearly tripped over himself trying to get out of its way. “Whoa!” he exclaimed, watching the fleeing feline disappear around the corner into the wider streets beyond.</p><p>“You think it knocked a vase off a windowsill or something?” Jet asked.</p><p>“Tch,” Ryuji spat. “If we’re lucky, yeah. Let’s go.” He wasn’t feeling particularly lucky, these days.</p><p>Less than a minute later, that feeling proved prescient. Right across from their first stop at the bathhouse, the door to Café Leblanc was missing a pane of glass, which stood out like a sore thumb in what little morning light filtered down the alley. The lack of shards on the ground meant it had been broken from the outside.</p><p>The crews did at least have to make some pretense of upholding the “protection” part of the protection racket. If they didn’t, people got cranky enough to push back. That led to them getting pushed back down, which meant violence. Violence led to cops, and cops meant bribes, and bribes meant money, which meant the <em>Big Man</em> got cranky.</p><p>“Fuckin’ Kurusu,” Ryuji muttered. “Even when he pays, he’s a pain in the ass.”</p><p>“Whaddaya mean?” Mouse asked.</p><p>“I mean we need to at least peek inside and make sure he’s not dead,” Ryuji growled back. “We don’t want some stickup crew thinkin’ they can move in on our turf.”</p><p>“Unless they’re working for us,” Jet said. Mouse giggled.</p><p>Ryuji scowled and moved to the door. It was too dark to see much through the glass that was still intact, but he could hear voices from inside even before he pushed it open. As soon as he did, it didn’t take more than a second for Ryuji to wish he’d started working somewhere, <em>anywhere</em>, that provided effin’ vacation days.</p><p>Kurusu was in the back of the café near the kitchen, on the far side of the counter. The guy had a downright scary look on his face, and one of his arms was held up. It was an unmistakably protective posture, for the apparent benefit of the girl cowering behind him, who was clutching the back of Kurusu’s outstretched arm. Ryuji didn’t recognize her.</p><p>To the left, on his side of the counter and even with the first set of booths, were three guys Ryuji <em>did</em> recognize. Unfortunately.</p><p>They were one of the other crews, and had been part of the group in Yongen. The key word, Ryuji thought, being <em>had</em>. What was the old saying? “You can choose your family, but not your coworkers”? Something like that.</p><p>“Hey there, Stud,” Ryuji said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Wasn’t expectin’ to run into you today.”</p><p>If he felt surprised or disadvantaged by Ryuji’s appearance, the man in charge of the second crew that had apparently just broken into Café Leblanc didn’t show any signs of concern. “Yo, Blondie. Getting your usual early start today?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Ryuji nodded. “You getting a late one?”</p><p>The other man smiled. “Not at all.”</p><p>Ryuji frowned. “Ain’t yer crew s’posed to have moved up t’ Shimokita this month?”</p><p>Stud, whose real name Ryuji knew to be Tsukasa, nodded. “We’re just making a quick stop on the way first.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” said Ryuji. “You maybe wanna fill me in? Seeing as I picked up this place’s payment myself earlier this week.”</p><p>Tsukasa shrugged. “Don’t worry. We’re not going to hurt the coffee shop any more than we have to. We’re just here for the girl.”</p><p>“Right,” Ryuji drawled. “And she’s your business because…?”</p><p>Tsukasa’s eyes narrowed. “She may not have been one of your stops, but she’s one of mine. Princess here runs that dance studio a couple blocks away.”</p><p>Ryuji crossed his arms. “I still ain’t heard a reason why you’re here, yet. This ain’t Shimokitazawa, last I checked.”</p><p>“Don’t get too curious, Blondie,” Tsukasa growled.</p><p>“I ain’t curious, man. I’m pissed. Y’see, this place is paid up.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Unless you’re gonna try’n tell me that the door there broke itself?”</p><p>Tsukasa’s ears were starting to get a little red around the piercings he’d adopted only after receiving his street nickname. “Stud” had come to the extortion crews after working in the much more glamorous – and profitable – enterprises of Shinjuku, where he’d been caught getting a little too close to some of the… merchandise. “Fucking hell. We’ll pay the man back for his damn door, provided he gets the hell out of our way.”</p><p>“Out of your way for what, exactly?” Kurusu asked, speaking up for the first time since Ryuji had arrived. His eyes were scanning back and forth, assessing the situation with a strange degree of calmness. “You didn’t really have time to say after, you know, <em>breaking in</em>.”</p><p>Tsukasa took a breath, regaining some of his smugness as he turned back to Leblanc’s manager. “A simple business proposition. That’s all.”</p><p>Ryuji shook his head. “Stud, this ain’t your crew’s beat anymore. Whoever’s got the girl’s gym or whatever now will handle it. Her business is their business, not yours.”</p><p>That remark only seemed to widen Tsukasa’s smile. “That’s where you’re wrong, Blondie. After all, Princess here can’t pay.”</p><p>The girl behind Kurusu whimpered, setting Ryuji’s teeth on edge.</p><p>Tsukasa cackled. “I knew it.” He turned a gleeful expression to both of his crewmates, slapping them on their backs. Their aliases were Wart and Rude, though Ryuji couldn’t remember which was which, let alone their real names. “What’d I say? They’re easy to spot if you know what to look for. This is why I had you watch her place last night.”</p><p>“I still ain’t seein’ why it’s your business, man,” Ryuji barked, getting tired of the whole situation.</p><p>Tsukasa wheeled back around to face Ryuji’s crew, holding his arms wide. “Free enterprise, Blondie! Do you have any clue what a <em>waste</em> it would be to turn her in like she’s any old hag who couldn’t pay? Forget the damn crew rotations, I’ve been looking forward to this day since Princess here finally took her strike last month!”</p><p>Ryuji had never considered himself to be quick on the uptake, but even he wasn’t so dumb he couldn’t add two and two together. Especially when he knew the reputation of the man talking.</p><p>Tsukasa went on, with a light in his eyes Ryuji didn’t want to contemplate. “You think I don’t remember what a hundred grand could buy in Shinjuku? Princess like this, I knew the moment I saw her that there’s plenty she could do that’s worth it, especially when my boys are willing to go Dutch. Hell, if your crew wants a slice, that’s even better for us all! Fifteen thousand each, for a piece like that? She’s practically a cheap date!”</p><p>“Over. My. Dead. Body.” Kurusu <em>snarled</em> every single word.</p><p>Tsukasa’s smile looked half-drunk. “That your fetish?” He leered. “Or hers? You never know with girl next door types. Maybe she’ll even like it that way. Didn’t think she had a boyfriend, but hey, maybe we can get him to chip in. How about it, pretty boy? Wanna ante up? You look like the type to have a thing for cuck porn.”</p><p>Kurusu’s rage had transcended anger into something that looked like cold detachment. His gaze at Tsukasa was frigid. “Nah, I’ve seen your videos, they didn’t do much for me. But maybe that’s just because you’re an ugly crier.”</p><p>Tsukasa froze. The entire room was silent for a beat.</p><p>Behind Ryuji, Mouse snorted half a laugh. Even Tsukasa’s accomplices looked hard-pressed to keep their faces blank.</p><p>“Kurusu?” groaned Ryuji. “Shut the fuck up. Yer smart mouth ain’t helpin’ here.”</p><p>The situation was not good, no matter how Ryuji looked at it. Tsukasa wasn’t going to keep playing nice. Kurusu wasn’t going to step aside. And Ryuji couldn’t just do the smart thing and walk straight back out the door. Not if he ever wanted to sleep again.</p><p><em>He’s not worth it</em>. The words echoed inside his head, along with the unforgettable sight of two grey eyes, burned into his memory.</p><p>Ryuji knew his way around a fight, but Kurusu didn’t strike him as a brawler, unless you counted his mouth. Tsukasa’s crew had been willing to follow him off their beat, on a collection day no less, so it was safe to assume they had his back, at least when it came to having a little “fun.”</p><p>As for Jet and Mouse, Ryuji wasn’t sure about the two new guys. Best case, maybe they wouldn’t go against him, personally, but no way in hell they were going to throw down for a stranger <em>or</em> his girl, let alone against one of their own fellow crews.</p><p><em>He’s not worth it.</em> A firm hand holding his wrist.        </p><p>No, fists weren’t going to fix this in his favor, any more than they would have then, standing in that bastard’s office. Hard as it might have been, Ryuji knew he was going to have to try to think his way out of this.</p><p>“You smartass little fuck,” Tsukasa growled, rounding on Kurusu. “Just for that, I’m gonna make you <em>watch</em>.” The red on his face was spreading to cover more than just his pierced ears as he took a threatening step.</p><p>Kurusu matched him in the opposite direction, keeping as much of the counter between them as he could. “You already said that,” he replied, his voice calm. He had the cast-iron balls to smirk at the man threatening him. Ryuji was somehow unsurprised. “Or did you not know what cuck porn actually is?”</p><p>Ryuji only then realized that, in spite of keeping the girl huddled behind him, Kurusu had succeeded in focusing Tsukasa’s wrath solely on himself.  Whatever it was he was trying to do, he was doing it intentionally.</p><p>“Do you know who you’re talking to?!” Tsukasa screamed. “I’ll kill you, asshole!”</p><p>“Uh, dude, calm down…” the balder half of Tsukasa’s crew muttered, laying a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I don’t think…”</p><p>Kurusu glanced at Ryuji, for just a fraction of a second. And suddenly Ryuji understood his plan.</p><p>“Tsukasa, you need to chill,” Ryuji said, with deliberate emphasis.</p><p>The other man spun, his eyes still wild. “The hell, Blondie? No names! You know the rules!”</p><p>Ryuji kept his arms crossed, and stood as tall as his leg would allow. With his bulk and years of experience, if there was one thing Ryuji Sakamoto could do without peer, it was <em>loom</em>. “The rules, huh? So do you, asshat. You’re out of your lane, you <em>and</em> your crew, all so you can get your rocks off on company time? On top of that, you’re givin’ me trouble with a stop that’s already paid up, including threatenin’ him just for givin’ you a little lip.”</p><p>Tsukasa had gone very still all of a sudden. Both Wart and Rude, whichever was which, were trading worried looks. Ryuji twisted the knife. “You think the Big Man will give me grief if I send you packin’ to where you’re s’posed to be already? Maybe I should just give him a call and see?” He took out his phone.</p><p>He didn’t dare break eye contact with Tsukasa to look behind and find out what Jet and Mouse were making of this, but from the corner of his vision, Ryuji could see Kurusu doing exactly that. His tiny smile was telling. Both Wart and Rude were each openly reaching for one of their leader’s arms. Whether they wanted to restrain him or just plain drag him out, Ryuji didn’t care. He wasn’t going to be picky at this point.</p><p>A phone began to ring.</p><p>The jaunty xylophone notes of a default iPhone ringtone filled the café. Ryuji knew it wasn’t his; it was on silent, and he’d have felt it vibrating in his hand. Everyone seemed frozen in place for three solid seconds, until the girl behind Kurusu jumped. She pulled her phone from her pocket, and blinked at the screen for an additional moment in confusion. At last, she flipped the switch to mute it and put it back. If Ryuji wasn’t hearing things, she actually mumbled an apology.</p><p>The tension may have been broken, but the stalemate had not. Ryuji turned, pointing at the door. “Stud, I think you and yer crew need to leave.”</p><p>Tsukasa’s jaw clenched. He was grinding his teeth. “C’mon, Blondie. She’s going to have to pay up one way or another. Why shouldn’t we get to have some fun?”</p><p>“She ain’t my stop, and she sure as shit ain’t yours.”</p><p>“What the hell?” he gritted out. “You gonna try and white knight for this bitch? She’s my Princess! I saw her first!”</p><p>Ryuji laughed humorlessly. “Fuck no. I said she ain’t my stop, but I ain’t keepin’ secrets from another crew. Though if you get your ass in gear right now, I <em>might</em> be willing to try and forget I saw <em>you</em>.”</p><p>That unsubtle threat was enough to convince Tsukasa’s cronies, at least. Both Wart and Rude slunk out the door, accompanied by the ringing bell and the crinkle of glass beneath their shoes. Ryuji was happy to let them retreat with their tails between their legs.</p><p>Tsukasa was not slow to realize just how outnumbered he suddenly was, if his panicked look was any indication. “Cheh,” he spat, tongue stud clicking against his teeth. He pointed a finger at the girl, who was still huddled at Kurusu’s back. “Assuming there’s anything left worth having, I’ll be back for you someday.” With patently false bravado, he drew himself up and stormed out after his friends.</p><p>After the door closed again, Ryuji let out a long, labored breath. He turned to his crew. “Make sure those three are at least pretendin’ to go where they’re fuckin’ s’posed to be. After that, we’ve got our own work to worry about, before we get too far behind.”</p><p>“What about you?” Mouse asked.</p><p>Ryuji jerked a thumb towards Kurusu. “I need to square things with him. Stud’s crew did break his door,” he reminded them.</p><p>Jet and Mouse shared a look, then a shrug, and left.</p><p>The bell above the door had fallen silent by the time Ryuji turned to glare at Kurusu. “You got fuckin’ lucky today.”</p><p>The other man nodded. “I know. Thank you.”</p><p>Ryuji shook his head with a growl. “Damnit. You don’t get it, Kurusu. I ain’t runnin’ around here on a charity drive. You know what happens. If she don’t pay, and she’s taken her strike, she’ll be goddamned lucky if the Big Man goes with Tsukasa’s idea.”</p><p>The girl whimpered again at that, hiding her face in her hands.</p><p>For a moment, Kurusu looked impossibly weary, his eyes falling closed and his entire head full of stupid, frizzy hair bowing forward. But once again he looked up, and nodded. “I know. But thank you, all the same.”</p><p>“Tch,” Ryuji scoffed.</p><p>Kurusu smiled, in a way that was not particularly pleasant. “Don’t worry about the door.”</p><p>Ryuji raised an eyebrow at that. “You sure? I know this whole deal ain’t exactly signed ‘n sealed, but I think it’s safe to say we owe you for that.”</p><p>“Oh, you do,” Kurusu replied.</p><p>Ryuji’s eyes narrowed. “Spit it out, then.”</p><p>He took half a step to the side, far enough that he could place a hand on the girl’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on Ryuji the entire time.</p><p>“Hell, no,” Ryuji said, shaking his head. “One little piece of glass ain’t worth a hundred grand.”</p><p>“Fuck the door,” Kurusu spat, anger flaring to life in his grey eyes once more. “You owe <em>me</em>, Sakamoto.”</p><p><em>He’s not worth it, </em>those exact same eyes had once said. “How d’you figure?” Ryuji blustered, even as what was left of his conscience gave a pang.</p><p>In place of the bristling anger Ryuji expected, something different flared to life in Kurusu’s eyes. Oh, he was still pissed, that was plain as day, but this wasn’t just that. If Ryuji didn’t know any better, he’d say the other man pitied him.</p><p>“Look, how your life has been screwed up since then is none of my business,” he said. His voice was low, and tinged with just enough sympathy to get Ryuji’s hackles up. “But I know there’s an assault that <em>isn’t</em> on your record because of me.”</p><p>Ryuji felt his jaw clench involuntarily, right in time with his fists. Hell, it seemed like every muscle in his body was just waiting for the sound of a starting gun. And that was just the least of why he suddenly felt like he was sixteen all over again.</p><p>Effin’ Kamoshida.</p><p>An unfamiliar face on a spring day. Someone who didn’t know about that bastard. Someone who didn’t know about <em>him</em>. A fellow outcast, at long last. A sympathetic ear.</p><p>Shiho Suzui on the roof. The red, consuming rage of certainty, even without any kind of proof.</p><p>The bastard, cackling like a hyena. Taunting them with what he’d <em>done</em>, right there in his office.</p><p>
  <em>He’s not worth it.</em>
</p><p><em>Oh? You’re stopping him? You think that’ll stop </em>me<em>?</em> That’s what Kamoshida had said.</p><p>A knock. His mother answering the door. The terrified look on her face, when she’d shown the policemen in. <em>You’re under arrest for assault. Your teacher’s – excuse me, your victim’s – sworn statement has already been filed.</em></p><p>A night in juvenile lockup. His mother, red-eyed and shaking as she’d posted his bail.</p><p>Expulsion, effective immediately, for a “repeat offense.” His mother forced to stay home with him under his terms of release, even when it cost her job.</p><p>Another cop at the door, a detective in plainclothes. <em>I’d like to ask you about that day.</em></p><p>Lawyers. Hearing dates. Then, Kamoshida on the news. Arrested. Suspected rape of a minor. Suspected of physical abuse. Suspected of filing a false report.</p><p>
  <em>Due to lack of evidence, charges against you have been withdrawn. </em>
</p><p>Back in the present, Ryuji grit his teeth against the flood of memories and the accompanying pain in his leg. “Because of you? How d’you figure? That bastard recanted all that bullshit when he got put away. What’s that got t’do with you?”</p><p>Kurusu’s reply was as calm and precise as a knife thrust. “Ever wonder how he would have recanted if I’d let you throw that punch?”</p><p>“The hell’s it matter now, anyway?” Ryuji shot back.</p><p>
  <em>He’s not worth it.</em>
</p><p><em>Oh? You’re stopping him? You think that’ll stop </em>me<em>? Both of you, get out of my sight.</em></p><p>
  <em>Thanks, man. I owe you one.</em>
</p><p>Ryuji had tried to forget it all. All, except for that.</p><p>“Fine. Maybe that’s not worth a hundred thousand yen,” Kurusu went on, perhaps mistaking Ryuji’s ongoing flashback for hesitation. “It doesn’t have to be.”</p><p>The girl was looking back and forth between them. “Akira-san, don’t—” she began. Her eyes were wide with shock.</p><p>Ryuji’s were now narrowed to slits. “What, then?”</p><p>Kurusu’s eyes locked on his. “I’ve still got my strike.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Ryuji acknowledged. “What of it?”</p><p>“I want you to tell your boss I’m giving my strike to her. Tell him she gets another month.”</p><p>“Akira! You can’t do that!” the girl exclaimed.</p><p>Ryuji snorted. “Girl’s got a point, Kurusu. I don’t <em>tell</em> the Big Man the sky is blue without his fuckin’ say-so.”</p><p>“I’m not asking you for a hundred grand, or to climb Tokyo Tower freestyle. I’m not even asking you to fix my door,” the other man retorted. “Everybody gets one warning, you said. I give mine to her, and keep paying, just like I always have. Better for everybody that way, right?”</p><p>“I think you’ve thrown enough of my own words back in my face for one day, smartass,” Ryuji said, without heat. He sighed.</p><p>Effin’ conscience.</p><p>“Fine. I’ll <em>ask</em> the Big Man. I ain’t gonna promise <em>anything</em>, you hear me? Not a goddamn thing, except that I’ll ask.”</p><p>Kurusu nodded. “That’s fair.”</p><p>Ryuji shook his head. Was it still morning? He sat down at the counter in the chair nearest the door. His leg was throbbing in pain that was more than half a memory inside his head. He felt exhausted. And this was not a good conversation to spend an entire day looking forward to. “If I ain’t back around tomorrow, you can probably take that as a ‘no.’ With any luck, I’ll be past carin’ at that point, if you catch my drift.”</p><p>“You think it’ll come to that?” Kurusu looked honestly concerned.</p><p>Ryuji shrugged. “The Big Man likes money. Everythin’ else is just because of that.” There was no point in explaining further.</p><p>The bell rang as the café’s front door opened. Ryuji glanced up, half expecting to see Jet or Mouse back to give him more bad news. Maybe Tsukasa had called in a favor with the effin’ JSDF, or the Big Man had learned to read minds and was on his way to Yongen right now. Maybe there was a tsunami coming that was going to destroy Tokyo and kill them all.</p><p>It was nothing of the sort, however. Ryuji blinked, not quite sure what he was seeing.</p><p>A foreigner had just walked into the café, in spite of the “Closed” sign hanging in the door. That hadn’t stopped anyone else this morning, of course, but this woman didn’t look like she was here to rob the place. She was in her early twenties, if Ryuji had to guess, and obviously a fan of the color blue. She wore blue tennis shoes, jeans, and a shirt beneath a light jacket in two slightly different shades of the same. Even her long, naturally blonde hair was adorned with a fancy blue headband. Were those butterfly wings?</p><p>Color coordination overindulgence aside, there was one feature that truly stood out to Ryuji: she also had golden eyes.</p><p>“Hello, Trickster,” she said, addressing Kurusu as she adjusted the strap of her blue (of course) shoulder bag. “Have I missed all the excitement?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- - <em>This Above All</em> - -</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>4/1/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Daytime</strong></p><p> </p><p>Kasumi felt lost.</p><p>That was only the foremost of the jumble of emotions running through her head, thanks to the strange woman that had just strolled into Leblanc and greeted Akira with a nickname. A nickname, without even an honorific. Like an old friend.</p><p>Just beneath the lid of confusion was a pot of conflicting feelings that had begun boiling the moment Akira had come down the stairs what felt like a lifetime ago. Anxiety and hope. Terror and powerlessness. Betrayal and guilt. Anger and relief.</p><p>The immediate danger of the situation seemed to have passed, at least. By the time Akira and the bleach-blonde man had begun speaking to one another with an air of familiarity, if not particular closeness, Kasumi had been able to start breathing again. And while she was not ungrateful for Akira’s negotiating for her sake, there was no denying the sense of shame and responsibility she felt at his needing to do so in the first place. The fact that she had no better ideas, that she had indeed been unable to do anything but cower behind the man who’d been her boyfriend for all of <em>five seconds</em> before the products of her own incompetence and poor judgement had literally broken through his door… It left a knot in her stomach and a bitter taste in her mouth.</p><p>“Lavenza-san,” Akira said, nodding at the woman who’d called him “Trickster.” She was a striking figure, between her blue attire, flawless fair complexion, and arresting golden eyes. “I’m sorry, but this… isn’t really a good time.” He smiled a bit. “We’re honestly still closed, in spite of appearances.”</p><p>“I am aware,” the woman said. “Prince came to warn me that you might be in some difficulty.”</p><p>“Who?” Kasumi asked, before she could stop herself.</p><p>“My partner,” Lavenza replied.</p><p>“Her cat,” said Akira, at the exact same time.</p><p>Kasumi blinked. “Oh,” she managed.</p><p>Lavenza smiled. Even that tiny, amused expression exuded an aura that was almost beatific. “He will be most cross with you for saying so, Trickster. You know how sensitive he gets.”</p><p>“Yeah, Kurusu?” The man Akira had called Sakamoto stood up, scratching the back of his head. The gymnast inside her winced, both at his imposing, if unwieldy, physique and the obvious limp he was carrying. “I think I’ll just show myself out.”</p><p>“All right. And Sakamoto? Thanks. No matter how this turns out,” Akira added, running a hand through his hair.</p><p>The other man waved that off. “Hell, man. Part of me knew what I was signin’ up for when I told Shujin where to shove it. Least this way, we’re finally even.”</p><p>He started shuffling towards the door, but Lavenza held up a hand, that simple gesture stopping a man who was a head taller and at least fifty kilos heavier.</p><p>Lavenza was staring intently at the man who was her physical opposite in almost every way imaginable. She looked at Akira, and then back to Sakamoto. “One moment, please. I have something for you.” She reached into the blue handbag hanging from her shoulder.</p><p>“Uh, me?” Sakamoto asked blankly.</p><p>Lavenza produced a massive book, almost as big as the container she extracted it from. Cracking open the thick cover, she began flipping pages. Somehow, the gestures made the sounds not of stiff leather or rustling paper, but the faintest notes of ringing bells. She stopped on a page, seemingly at random, and withdrew a card. She held it out.</p><p>“Uh… thanks? I think?” Sakamoto said, blinking at the card in confusion for a moment before placing it inside a pocket of his sport coat. He glanced at Akira, an eyebrow quirked in silent inquiry.</p><p>“Don’t look at me,” he said. “She’s been coming around this place since before I moved to Tokyo. I’ve learned not to ask too many questions.”</p><p>“I am right here, Trickster,” Lavenza said with a tone of obvious amusement, as she returned her strange book to its container.</p><p>“Okay, yeah, whatever. I’m outta here,” Sakamoto said, shaking his head and still muttering to himself even as the door swung shut behind him.</p><p>Kasumi still felt lost, glancing between the two remaining people in Leblanc aside from herself. “Akira-san… what… What just happened?”</p><p>To her momentary surprise, he started to laugh, rubbing a hand back and forth across his forehead. It was a sound with no humor or amusement or even mockery to it. After a heartbeat of confused, almost instinctive hurt, Kasumi realized she actually recognized it. It sounded like sheer, exhausted, knees-shaking, hands-trembling, post-performance relief.</p><p>Akira leaned forward, propping himself upright with both hands braced against the top of the counter. He craned his neck to one side to look at her. “When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”</p><p>“You seem distressed, Trickster.”</p><p>“That’s a word for it,” said Akira. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you, at least. I’ve run into Prince several times this week, hanging around outside the café.”</p><p>“He’s been worried,” Lavenza replied, as though there was nothing the slightest bit strange about such an observation. “I don’t suppose we might be of any assistance?” she asked.</p><p>Akira shook his head. “No, thank you. I’ll tell Sojiro you asked, though. He’ll be sorry he missed you.”</p><p>“It was not on Boss’ behalf that I inquired, Trickster, though you may feel free to tell him that I hope he is well.”</p><p>Kasumi wrung her hands, still feeling left sickeningly out of her depth by the entire day to this point. “Akira-san?” she interjected, cursing the timidity that was plain to even her own ears. “Should I… go? You… seem to know each other?”</p><p>It was only a small relief to see how quickly Akira shook his head. “No, don’t. Sorry. Let me… Let me introduce you two. Kasumi, this is Lavenza, or as Sojiro would call her, Leblanc’s first regular. Lavenza, this is Kasumi Yoshizawa.” He chuckled, offering Kasumi the kind of smile that always made her heart skip a beat. “My girlfriend since, oh, fifteen minutes ago?”</p><p>“Indeed? My sincerest felicitations then,” Lavenza replied. She dropped into a curtsey with such stupendous grace that it didn’t even seem the least bit incongruous with her attire. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Yoshizawa-san.”</p><p>Kasumi felt herself smiling, in spite of everything. “If you’re a customer here of such long standing, that’s all I need to know. Please, call me Kasumi.”</p><p>Lavenza blinked, her head tilting to one side. “Oh? But didn’t Akira say your name was Kasumi?”</p><p>A shiver of terror went through her. The leaden weight that had only just started to clear from her stomach had in an instant turned into a ball of ice. <em>No. No, please, not now. Not again.</em> <em>Not here, not here. Never </em>here<em>, please, please…</em></p><p>“Sorry. I misspoke, didn’t I?” Akira said. He sounded so far away. His voice was only just reaching her. “Look at my hands shaking, I must be more frazzled than I thought.” He looked at Kasumi. There was something strange and almost painfully sad in his gaze. “You’ve made quite a catch, huh? Fifteen minutes a couple and I’ve already botched your name on my first introduction.” He turned back to Lavenza. “Forgive me. It’s Kasumi Yoshizawa.”</p><p>She wanted to believe him, as she always had. To trust him, as she always had. <em>But he didn’t misspeak, though,</em> something whispered in the back of her mind, insistent and insidious. <em>Why would he say that? </em>Unlike how she felt with everyone else she’d ever spoken to, Kasumi’s heart fluttered every time he said her name. For that alone, she’d never fail to know if he’d said something else.</p><p>…wouldn’t she?</p><p>Lavenza was studying her, much as she’d done with Sakamoto a few minutes prior. Kasumi tried to school her face into something, anything that wouldn’t betray the sour rot she was feeling inside. The other woman glanced back at Akira, then back at Kasumi. Her golden eyes blinked, widening in startlement. “Oh!” she gasped. “How strange. One moment.” She dug the book out of her bag once more.</p><p>Kasumi’s arms crossed over her stomach, each hand gripped tight on the opposite elbow in an effort to conceal her trembling. She almost jumped when a hand rested lightly on her shoulder. It took her a split-second to realize it was Akira. He was looking at her with concern.</p><p>“Are you okay? It’s been… quite a morning.”</p><p>The plain worry in his tone, honest and unambiguous, was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes. Her head was too much of a mess to even try to lie. “No,” she whispered. “No, I’m really not.”</p><p>Another flutter of pages to the almost inaudible tone of bells drew their attention, and Lavenza produced another card. She offered it to Kasumi. “This is yours,” she said simply.</p><p>“Mine?” Kasumi asked, reaching out with one shaking hand to take the small card. No larger than her palm, it was warm to the touch, as though it had been lying in the sun. It was a picture, almost cartoonishly abstract, of a skeleton wearing a robe and miter. Two small, imp-like figures were beneath it. One held a trident, and the second a leash attached to the skeleton’s neck. At the bottom, just below a small tear in the material, were English letters. They spelt a word or phrase unfamiliar to her: La Foi. Kasumi looked at Lavenza. “I don’t understand.”</p><p>Lavenza smiled. There was such simple kindness in her expression that she managed to make Kasumi feel a little better just to see it. “There is nothing to understand. It is simply yours, as much as your hand, or your foot. Or your heart.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Kasumi said, almost on reflex. With a last, vaguely disquieted glance, she placed the card in her pocket beside her phone.</p><p>Her phone! “Oh,” she gasped, pulling it out. “I wonder who it was that called, back then.”</p><p>“Another boyfriend?” Akira asked, dropping an arm across her shoulders with a gentle squeeze.</p><p>She managed the tiniest smile, thanks more to the gesture than to the joke. “No, I don’t recognize the number, and they didn’t leave a message. Oh well.” She pocketed her phone. And stopped. She frowned, her hand shifting. “The card.” She blinked. She checked her other pocket, then the floor, and even bent to pat her hands all the way down both legs of her borrowed sweatpants. “It’s gone!” She turned to Lavenza, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, how could I have lost it? It was—”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Lavenza said, shaking her head with a benign smile. “That is just what happens.”</p><p>Kasumi swept a trembling hand across her bangs. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she said to Lavenza, before turning her head to look up at Akira. “You know some very strange people.”</p><p>He chuckled and rubbed a hand up and down her upper arm. The friction was unaccountably soothing. “Why do you think I want you to stick around? I’m tired of feeling outnumbered.”</p><p>“I do believe I should take my leave, and let Prince know all is well for the moment,” Lavenza said.</p><p>“Say hello for me,” Akira replied, with a wry hint to his tone.</p><p>“I will,” she nodded. “Though you may feel free to say as much to him yourself. I’m sure he will insist on loitering outside no matter how much I try to persuade him otherwise.” She bowed, deeply and formally, to them both. “Until next time, Trickster, Kasumi-san.” With a final ring, the door shut behind her.</p><p>The instant they were alone, Kasumi felt the strength leave her legs in a rush. She dropped out of Akira’s embrace, falling from where she stood into a crouch behind the counter, just beneath the register.</p><p>Akira was at her side again at once, dropping to a knee. “Whoa, there! Are you okay?”</p><p>She buried her face in her arms where they were folded across her knees, shaking her head. “What do you think?” she asked helplessly.</p><p>He was silent for a long moment, one hand rubbing comforting circles across her back. “Yeah. Me too. Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”</p><p>“Maybe a time machine. I just want to cook you breakfast, back when life was simple. Take me back. Just an hour. That’s all I ask.”</p><p>“Sorry,” he said softly. “Sojiro won’t teach me that recipe until he retires for real.”</p><p>Her laugh was half a sniffle. “Then just… stay. Please. Just as you are now.” <em>Now that you make sense again. Like I hoped you always would.</em></p><p>His hand was warm against her back, a solid anchor in a world that left her more adrift with each passing moment. “That, I can do,” he said. His voice was the only thing that had never confused her. Never betrayed her. It had been the last rotting timber in the crumbling wreck named Kasumi Yoshizawa.</p><p>Without that, what was she? Both broken and broke, left clinging to the debris as the house of her spirit crumbled. Without him, what did she have left?</p><p>In that moment, she had no answer but to quietly sob.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- - <em>This Above All</em> - -</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>4/1/2026</strong><br/><strong>Wednesday<br/></strong> <strong>Evening</strong></p><p> </p><p>For Akira, sleep would not come.</p><p>He was exhausted beyond words, but his mind refused to give him any peace. It had been far more than a long day in the café, though it had been that, as well. After the excitement of the morning, Sumire had calmed down with rapid aplomb. He might have been reassured by that, if she hadn’t spent the day as little more than a hollow shell of the woman he had come to know.</p><p>Identity crises notwithstanding – and he was still cursing himself for that near-disaster when he’d introduced her to Lavenza – she had stopped sniffling, and given every outward appearance of poise since then. But that was all. Sumire’s smiles were perfunctory, her laughter absent. She was a picture of politeness and grace, and about as animated as a porcelain doll.</p><p>She had been stubborn enough to insist he open the café, rightly asserting that there was no real reason not to, and several good ones in favor besides. Not least was the idea that the racketeers would be more reluctant to come back and cause trouble if there were witnesses about. She’d even swept up the glass from the broken pane in the door herself, taping a plastic bag over the hole until it could be fixed properly.</p><p>After her tears had dried, that had been the only moment of honest emotion, save one. She’d also vowed to help him in the café. Happy to encourage even that faint spark, he’d given her the freedom of his closet, and she’d managed to cobble together an outfit that served better than some baggy, borrowed sweats. She’d found an old pair of jeans he hadn’t even known he still possessed, in a cut that looked like it had been the height of style back when he was in high school. With a belt cinched to its tightest notch, they could almost pass for the right size, if a tad long in the legs. She’d claimed a plain black T-shirt and paired it with a white button-down. She’d left all the buttons undone, rolled up the sleeves, and knotted the lower half around her midsection, just beneath her ribs. It hid an otherwise atrocious fit with an unpretentious style that had made him smile. With her own tennis shoes having dried overnight, it had allowed her to look almost normal to all but the most inquiring eye.</p><p>There were a few of those, of course, and more than one comment from the regulars about the café’s cute new waitress. Sumire demurred each time, and smiled politely, but never once did she laugh.</p><p>After the late start, it proved a remarkably average day for Leblanc, in seeming defiance of how it had begun. A few dozen customers, rarely more than two at once, spread out over twelve hours. Sumire never once complained. She took and delivered orders, bussed tables, worked the register, and even answered the phone for a couple of takeout calls. It left Akira manning the kitchen and dishwasher, feeling practically useless compared to his usual day.</p><p>Whenever there was downtime, which for Leblanc meant often, he tried to talk to her. Sumire was courteous, but terse, seeming to avoid any topic but the most banal. She treated the customers the same way. She was vigilant for even the most mundane task; the tables had never been so clean. She watched the front door like a hawk, ever ready with a customer service smile.</p><p>Only once, late in the afternoon, did she initiate a conversation with him.</p><p>“<em>Why did Lavenza-san call you Trickster?</em>” Sumire had asked, out of the blue, in the quiet emptiness before the dinner rush.</p><p>“<em>Honestly? I’m not sure</em>,” he’d replied. “<em>She gives everyone nicknames like that, I think. She was apparently the first person to call Sojiro ‘Boss.’</em>”</p><p>She’d been quiet for a long moment. “<em>I didn’t know that</em>.” And then she’d said nothing more.</p><p>They had closed up early, just after eight, as soon as there’d been a lull in the evening crowd. Sumire helped with what little remained undone as Akira shut Leblanc down for the night.</p><p>Partly in thanks, partly hoping to surprise her, he’d dared a kiss on her cheek. She’d smiled politely, but the gesture hadn’t even elicited a blush, and the lack of response made him feel sick. No, worse: it made him feel like he was no better than those thugs. <em>There’s plenty she could do that’s worth it</em> had echoed mockingly inside his head.</p><p>It took less than five minutes to finish locking up.</p><p>“<em>Do you want to talk?</em>” he had asked.</p><p>“<em>I’m tired,</em>” was her only reply. It was the closest she’d come to a protest the entire day, and he hadn’t the heart to press.</p><p>“<em>My couch remains yours</em>,” Akira had said, trying not to let his concern and distress show in his voice. He’d offered her the shower first, and settled into a booth to stare mindlessly at the same page of a random magazine. By the time she was done and he’d taken his turn in the bathroom, he’d ascended the stairs to find her curled up beneath Futaba’s Phoenix Rangers Neo Featherman blanket on the couch. Her back was facing his bed. By all appearances, she was sound asleep.</p><p>He’d laid down himself, tossing fruitlessly for a time in a vain quest for sleep. He’d spent the last hour staring up at the ceiling, the day running on replay inside his head. From the couch, there had been no sound, without so much as a shift of the blankets to be heard.</p><p>With an audible sigh, Akira gave up, turning onto his right side in another futile endeavor towards rest.</p><p>A few minutes later, he heard a rustle of cloth from the couch behind him. Either Sumire had gotten uncomfortable enough lying still to give up pretending, or she’d finally fallen asleep for real.</p><p>Then he heard the sound of footsteps, bare feet on the hardwood floor. She’d picked at a plate of curry at lunch, declined any offer of dinner, and nursed a single glass of ice water for most of the day. If she’d finally found enough appetite for a drink or midnight snack, Akira wasn’t going to object.</p><p>The blanket covering him was drawn back.</p><p>Akira froze as a new weight settled into his bed behind him, before the comforter returned. It rested across him at an unfamiliar angle, empty air along his back. Then, with another subtle shift, even that was replaced with a warmth he’d never before felt in his life.</p><p>Through the material of the T-shirt Akira was wearing, he could feel exactly how much she wasn’t.</p><p>“Sumire-san?” he asked. His mouth was dry. He didn’t dare turn over to face her.</p><p>“Akira-san… I…”</p><p>He could feel her breath against his neck. A hand rested on his left shoulder blade.</p><p>“You’ve… offered me so much. In one day, you’ve…”</p><p>The base of his skull prickled as she rested her forehead against it.</p><p>“It’s not just about asking to… be my boyfriend. Or… what you said to Sakamoto-san. Or letting me stay, or the money I can’t possibly repay…”</p><p>He could feel the hand against his back close into a fist.</p><p>“I have nothing. Nothing to offer. Nothing to give. Nothing to promise. Nothing… except this. Me.”</p><p>Even if he couldn’t see it, even as he could hear her trying to hide it, Akira knew she was crying.</p><p>“Your plan might not work. They might say no. And if that happens, I… don’t want… that… to be… my first…” Her voice broke down into choked sobs.</p><p>Akira rolled over onto his left side, slowly, careful not to dislodge the comforter over them both. Desperately aware of where every piece of his body was, he folded his right arm, reaching out a hand to cup her cheek. “It won’t happen,” he said. She was so terribly close, and so terribly vulnerable. He used his thumb to brush away the tear resting against the side of her nose. The moisture glistened on her skin, standing out in the faint light that made it through the windows from the city outside.</p><p>“How can you know that?” she asked desperately.</p><p>“Because I won’t let it. I’ll carry you out of Tokyo with my own two feet if I have to.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“No buts,” he interrupted her gently. “I’m stubborn, remember? Just not…”</p><p>She choked out a single, precious laugh, fresh tears falling free as she screwed her eyes shut tight. “…on your own behalf. Just like me.”</p><p>“Just like you,” he agreed.</p><p>“How can you…” she swallowed, her red eyes staring at him pleadingly. “What can I even do that’s worth that much, except…?”</p><p>He shut his own eyes, blindly pressing their foreheads together, unable to bear the forlorn desperation in her gaze. Finding the right words was proving difficult enough, even without the lonely desolation he saw every day in the mirror looking back at him from the face of the woman he loved. “I don’t care about that,” he ground out, voice little more than a growl. “That is not why I’ve done any of this, not at all.”</p><p>“You mean you don’t… you don’t want…”</p><p>Eyes still fixed shut, he bit back a groan, every ounce of his focus devoted to pressing a single finger gently over her lips to silence that question before it could be asked. “<em>Yes</em>,” he rasped out. “Oh God, yes. Please never think for a single <em>second</em> I don’t. Not ever. But not now. Not like this.”</p><p>“But then… <em>why?</em>” she said, her voice a hollow, plaintive cry, desperate and confused.</p><p>Akira forced his eyes open. Forced himself to look at her. Forced himself to tell her as much of the truth as he could possibly make her understand. “Because you’re worth infinitely more than what anyone else tells you. Because you’re exhausted. In shock. Terrified.” <em>Because when I cry out your name, I want you to </em>hear<em> it, and know who I’m talking to. </em>“Because, to be perfectly honest? I am all those things, too.”</p><p>The dam trembled. And, finally, burst. Sumire screwed her eyes closed and wailed, loosing at last the shattering cry of despairing, soul-deep anguish that Akira himself had been fighting back ever since she’d closed herself off after that morning’s events. She buried her head against his chest and bawled, without reserve, clenching her fists in his shirt, purging herself in the only way she knew how.</p><p>That kind of expulsion was a swift burn, as messy as it was essential. Like throwing up, it made you feel better, but didn’t heal in and of itself. Within minutes she’d fallen silent, utterly spent. He held her close through it all, one arm wrapped above her shoulders, the other hand gently petting her hair.</p><p>“I can’t promise you it will all be fine,” he admitted, once she’d been silent long enough to start breathing normally again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you like that. But I do swear that, no matter what, I won’t let you face this alone.”</p><p>He felt her nod against his chest. “I… believe you,” she said, only the barest hesitation in her raw, ragged voice. “I trust you.”</p><p>Akira smiled into her hair. She smelled like his shampoo. He didn’t know why that, of all things, was what nearly made him break down and cry himself. “In that case,” he began, placing a kiss against her scalp, “would you be okay if I got up and got you a shirt?”</p><p>She groaned. In addition to the comforter still atop them both, her arms were already folded in between them, but he felt them shift across her chest. “I don’t know what came over me. I laid there for an hour, and somehow this made sense that entire time.”</p><p>“A whole hour, huh? I applaud your sense of restraint.”</p><p>For a one-inch punch, backhanded no less, her jab against his sternum packed a wallop. “Don’t tease me. I feel humiliated enough as it is,” she grumbled.</p><p>“Right. I’m sorry,” he said, extricating himself from both Sumire and his bed with no small care. Pulling a random T-shirt from his closet, he offered it to her, keeping his back turned. He counted holes in the ceiling tiles in lieu of focusing on the sound of shifting fabric behind him.</p><p>“…okay,” she murmured.</p><p>She was sitting up on the bed, legs curled beneath her, the comforter still bunched around her waist. He sat down at her side.</p><p>“Akira-san?” she said, hesitantly.</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“Would it also be more comfortable for you if I… stayed on the couch?” she asked, studying her hands as they picked at the fabric of the blanket.</p><p>He considered. “The bed’s not really made for two,” he pointed out, not without reluctance. “But what are you really asking?”</p><p>“I have no right to ask this, but… Even if you won’t let me… m-make l-love to you… then can you… h-hold me? Or, maybe, if nothing else… l-let me hold you?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he said. With a one-armed hug around her shoulders, Akira bowed his head to place a short, gentle kiss against her bangs. “Yeah. That, I can do.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. All Roads Lead to Rome</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>4/2/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Thursday<br/></strong> <strong>Morning</strong></p><p> </p><p>Ann’s first day staking out Yoshizawa Gymnastics and Dance Studio hadn’t resulted in the jackpot she’d been hoping for, but it had at least given her solid confirmation that she was on the right track… eventually.</p><p>After her meeting with Mishima in Shibuya, Ann had arrived in Yongen-Jaya by midmorning on Wednesday, but the studio’s listed address had proven a mystery to the map on her smartphone. That was a fact not unheard of in the less touristy regions of Tokyo’s labyrinthine and oft-changing urban sprawl. Thanks to experience, intuition, and some good old-fashioned guesswork, it had been just before noon when Ann had at last stumbled upon the otherwise unremarkable narrow stairwell in between a TV repair shop and a bargain shoe store that led up to a tiny door with a hand-written sign denoting “Yoshizawa Gymnastics.”</p><p>It had been closed and locked. With no apparent hours or schedule posted, and with Ann still hopeful enough to think that the studio’s namesake was perhaps out to lunch, she’d spent another hour waiting on the stairs with nothing to show for it.</p><p>That was right about the time it had dawned on Ann that it was still early afternoon on a school day. Yongen was not known for its abundance of the idle rich, and gymnastics was not the most likely pursuit of retirees. Chagrined, but far from disheartened, she’d decided that some good old-fashioned footwork was the next best thing. Starting with the adjacent shops, Ann had begun asking around and showing the picture Director Yoshizawa had provided her.</p><p>Ann had never truly appreciated the sheer density of the jumbled mass of businesses and attached residences packed into an average Tokyo backstreet. Nor was she accustomed to being asked if she was a member of the police. It had felt like pulling teeth to get anyone to acknowledge that yes, there was a gymnastics studio in the space once inhabited by an old warehouse and yes, that picture did look like the girl who ran it, and no, they didn’t know when she’d be back. The people of Yongen-Jaya that Ann encountered weren’t hostile, strictly speaking, but there was a consistent wariness of questions and outsiders that struck Ann as unusual, even for a culture as insular and rigid as Japan’s.</p><p>By the descent of evening, with a still-locked door and no sign of anyone arriving to prepare for a rush of after school pupils, Ann’s good mood had eroded into certainty that she’d managed to find the place she’d been looking for on her target’s day off. Footsore and frustrated, she made her way back to her own apartment. After a decent meal from one of her favorite takoyaki stands, she’d perked back up enough to regard what information her canvass had produced to be worthy of the day’s efforts. She did regret forgetting to try the phone number she had more than the one time that morning, but if it went to a landline inside the studio itself, that was no loss.</p><p>By the time she’d soaked away her accumulated grime and discomfort in a nice, hot bath, Ann was already growing eager to start fresh the next day. One of her background interviewees had defrosted enough to mention that early morning classes were not unheard of, after all.</p><p>On her second day staking out Yoshizawa Gymnastics and Dance Studio, the first thing Ann discovered was that she now had competition.</p><p>As soon as she saw the three men, ranging from early twenties to middle-aged and wearing an unsightly – if uniform – collection of sport coats and slacks, Ann was forced to place in new context the similar groups she had caught glimpses of on multiple occasions the previous day. The fact that this set was not prowling the back alleys, but instead loitering right in front of the narrow stairs leading to Ann’s target? That was something her journalistic instincts might term <em>bad news</em>. She was pretty sure they weren’t waiting on a gymnastics lesson, at least.</p><p>A few years covering the National Diet hadn’t given her much in the way of experience with clandestine surveillance, but Ann knew enough not to linger right in front of the three goons. Her rounds the day prior bore unexpected fruit in the form of a hole-in-the-wall okonomiyaki vendor on the corner down the alley. With a pair of small outdoor benches in view of the stairwell and its malingering visitors, that would at least provide Ann with enough time to think up a new plan. And breakfast, of course.</p><p>While waiting on her food and trying <em>not</em> to look too often in the direction of the studio, Ann noticed a black cat staring at her from a ledge across the street. There were surprisingly few strays populating the backstreets of Yongen, and this one seemed oddly focused on her. Even from this distance, she could see its large blue eyes staring in her direction. She blinked, wondering if she’d ever seen a blue-eyed cat before, but it chose that moment to lose interest, hopping off the ledge to stroll away.</p><p>Ann sat down a few minutes later to take in both her meal and a side-eyed vantage of the three men. It didn’t take long to determine that they did not seem interested in going anywhere anytime soon, and they were fairly bored with that prospect. She was too far away to overhear any of their conversations, but those were rare. For the most part, all three seemed to be killing time on their phones in between the odd half-hearted glance up and down the alley. They appeared to be waiting for something. Or someone.</p><p>Ann was worried she knew who that someone was, though she didn’t know quite what to make of that fact just yet.</p><p>Just when she was starting to wonder whether or not her leisurely breakfast was trending towards becoming conspicuous, something caught Ann’s eye. The studio was to her left, but around the corner to her right, a young woman had come into view down the otherwise empty street. Amidst the drab asphalt-grey palette of Yongen’s backstreets, her appearance was guaranteed to draw attention, perhaps especially Ann’s. A small pang of jealousy at the sight of long, unfettered blonde hair was her initial reaction, but the rest of the stranger’s ensemble gained notice soon after. Somebody <em>really</em> liked blue, and they even had enough fashion sense to pull it off.</p><p>They also were heading straight for the okonomiyaki stand. Or, as it soon became apparent, straight for Ann. The stranger stopped a polite distance away, but her strange golden eyes were fixed in their regard.</p><p>“Can I help you?” Ann asked in English. She didn’t get much practice with the language these days, apart from Shiho’s intermittent attempts to learn and phone calls with her own mother, but Ann took quiet pride in staying fluent. It was a private way to thumb her nose at the bigots who saw blonde hair and assumed they were talking to a loose woman. In this instance, Ann was taking an educated guess that she’d been spotted by a foreigner looking for directions.</p><p>“In a way, yes,” the stranger replied. Her own English had no accent that Ann could detect. “As a matter of fact, I was told I could find you here.”</p><p>“Find me?” Ann blinked. No one knew she was in Yongen-Jaya. She hadn’t even updated the director with her current lead yet.</p><p>“Yes,” the stranger replied, reaching into her bag to withdraw and then open a large book. “I have something for you.”</p><p>“Okay…” Ann replied doubtfully. “Sorry, but who are you? And why do you want to give me anything?”</p><p>“Oh, forgive my ill manners. I rather forgot myself in my haste when I was told you were here. My name is Lavenza.” The other woman held out a card. “And this is yours.”</p><p>“Mine?” Ann asked, accepting it. She flipped it back and forth. One side was a generic pattern you could find on any playing card, while the other was a picture of three figures side-by-side, with a Cupid and his notched arrow hovering above. “L’Amoureux” was written at the bottom. Ann’s knowledge of French was only good enough to recognize the language, and guess that it might have had something to do with love. The Cupid was also something of a hint, in that regard. Ann raised an eyebrow at the bearer of this unexpected… gift. “And someone told you I was here?”</p><p>“Yes, though purely by happenstance. I must say, the past few days have been quite eventful, after waiting for so long.”</p><p>Before Ann could even begin to make sense of that, the owner of the okonomiyaki stand came charging out, his face a furious scowl. “<em>Oi!</em> Go! You, no serve!” he shouted in broken, heavily accented English, waving his hands at Lavenza like he was trying to chase away a pest. “No serve! No <em>gaijin!</em>”</p><p>“My apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude,” Lavenza replied in flawless Japanese, and with an equally perfect bow. “If you’ll excuse me, then.”</p><p>“Hey, wait!” Ann said, stuffing the card into her purse as she moved to stand, but the other woman was already walking off.</p><p>Lavenza did pause, but only long enough to give Ann a similar bow and a friendly smile. “Have a good day. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”</p><p>The stall owner watched her go, before turning a suspicious eye on Ann. “Was she a friend of yours?” he asked.</p><p>“No,” she replied. “I’ve never met her before.”</p><p>“Tch. Damned foreign tourists,” the man spat, turning to make his way back behind the counter.</p><p>She didn’t bother pointing out to the man that the target of his ire had spoken Japanese more properly than either of them. This was why Ann kept wearing the wig, even when she wasn’t on the air.</p><p>Ann’s phone chimed, drawing her attention away from strange women, stranger gifts, and rude shopkeepers alike. A quick glance showed no missed calls, and no new e-mails or texts. She frowned. Had she imagined the sound? PVS was just supposed to be some silly acronym Ann had gotten stuck in her head like bad song lyrics since that day in Ms. Chuono’s class. Other than the creepy new icon one of her home screen apps had received – an update, maybe? – there was nothing to see.</p><p>Movement down the alley caught her eye, and Ann felt a moment of panicked realization. Had the three goons heard or seen any of the commotion from the corner? There would be no easy way to continue staking out Yoshizawa’s studio if Ann had to bug out due to being spotted.</p><p>No, thankfully none of the four men standing at the base of the stairs was looking in her direction. <em>Wait, four?</em> They might not have noticed her, but Ann had managed to miss another man coming to join the group. The new arrival stood out, both due to his muscular bulk and his bleached blonde hair. And if body language was any indication, it looked like he was telling the other three something they were not particularly pleased to hear.</p><p>Ann decided to take a gamble, and left the corner to begin walking down the alley towards the men. She stayed on the opposite side of the street, but kept her pace as deliberate as she thought she could possibly get away with. She would only be able to use this trick once, but with some luck she might overhear something useful.</p><p>Alas, her luck continued to prove fickle. With one last flurry of frustrated gestures, the original three men began stalking off down the alley, leaving only the newcomer behind. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he kicked at the pavement. The mannerism sparked something familiar in the back of Ann’s mind, and the itch of a long-forgotten memory grew as she got close enough to make out the man’s face. At her closest approach, directly across the alley, she stopped, stunned, unable to do almost anything but stare.</p><p>“Sakamoto?” she blurted.</p><p>The man looked up, leveling an unfriendly glare at her. “Who wants t’ know?” he barked.</p><p>“Ryuji Sakamoto, is that you?” Ann asked. Perhaps against her better judgement, she began crossing the street.</p><p>“Yeah, who the hell are—” he trailed off, his eyes narrowing as she approached. “Wait… Takamaki?”</p><p>She nodded. “Wow, I didn’t even recognize you. You’ve really bulked up.”</p><p>“And you got a lot less blonde.”</p><p>“It’s— nevermind,” she cut herself off, shaking her head and clamping both hands down on the strap of her purse. “It’s been a while.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he nodded. “Look, I can’t stay and chat. I’ve got some crap I gotta take care of.”</p><p>Ann frowned. It felt like she was making another roll of the dice, but she was already in the conversation, and if he knew something she didn’t… <em>Screw it. My luck hasn’t completely failed me yet.</em> And she had a Taser in her purse, just in case. “Yeah, I saw a little bit of that. What do you want with Yoshizawa-san?”</p><p>To her surprise, Sakamoto didn’t look guilty, or even evasive. He just frowned, in apparently honest confusion. “Who?”</p><p>Ann blinked. “The woman who owns that gymnastics studio?” she asked.<em> Wait, am I really that far off base?</em></p><p>“Oh, Kurusu’s girl?” Sakamoto replied, snapping his fingers as his eyes lit with recognition. “Huh. So that’s her name.”</p><p>She boggled. “Wait, what? Kurusu?! What’s he got to do with this?”</p><p>It was his turn to regard her with doubt. “Come to think of it, why the hell’re you here, anyway?”</p><p>“I’m on an assignment,” she replied. It was even technically true. If you squinted. Hard. “What about you?” she snapped, feeling defensive.</p><p>“Assignment? What, like for college?” He scratched the back of his head. “You still ain’t graduated yet?”</p><p>She palmed her forehead. “For SNN. You know, my job?”</p><p>Sakamoto’s stare remained blank.</p><p>“You don’t watch the news a lot, do you?”</p><p>“Fuck, no,” he sneered. “Why?”</p><p>“Just… forget it,” Ann muttered.  She rallied back to her point. “Besides, you still haven’t told me why <em>you’re</em> here.”</p><p>“Just some business with the girl that owns this joint,” he said, jerking his thumb towards the stairs at his back. “You said her name was Yoshizawa?”</p><p>“What kind of business?” she pressed.</p><p>“Bill collection. Boring shit, and none’a <em>your</em> business,” he shot back.</p><p>Okay, <em>now</em> he was being evasive, and of that Ann was certain. “Oh? Did she miss a utility payment?” She looked him up and down. “I didn’t know TEPCO’s dress code included gangster-chic.”</p><p>“Tch,” he spat. “Just as effin’ nosy as you were back in middle school.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m <em>way</em> worse now,” Ann countered. For good measure, she added a predatory grin. “What about Kurusu, then? Why would you two still be hanging out?” She hadn’t even known he was in Tokyo again. The thought made her feel strangely guilty, somehow, for all the fact that they’d never had any way, let alone reason, to keep in touch.</p><p>“We ain’t,” Sakamoto said flatly. “Just more’a the same business with him.”</p><p>“But he’s going out with Yoshizawa now?” she asked. Keeping up a steady pressure was the best way to get a cagey interviewee to slip, and if nothing else, Ann needed to get something out of this exchange that would help track the other girl down.</p><p>“Hell, I dunno. I guess?” he said, growing exasperated. “She was at his place, but I only see the guy once a month. Why do you care?”</p><p>“I don’t, particularly,” she replied, trying to keep Sakamoto off-balance. “I’m just looking for Yoshizawa-san, like I said.”</p><p>“Shit, fine, be that way. Have fun waitin’, then,” he growled, turning to storm off.</p><p>“Didn’t you have business with her? Are you looking for her, too?”</p><p>“I don’t gotta look!” he snapped.</p><p>“Aha!” she exclaimed, pointing a triumphant finger at him. “So you <em>do</em> know where she is!”</p><p>“I… didn’t say that,” he mumbled, ears turning red.</p><p>“Come on, just show me to her. Pleeeease?” she wheedled.</p><p>“Why the hell would I do that?” Sakamoto barked, his voice growing shrill.</p><p>“Because you owe me!”</p><p>“Fer what?!” he yelped, stopping to round on her, arms held out. The sheer, flustered confusion of his expression and demeanor was a little funny, in spite of his new physique.</p><p>“Remember that train fare I lent you back in middle school?” She adopted a thoughtful expression, tapping a finger against her cheek. “It may have only been 500 yen, but after fifteen years of compound interest…”</p><p>“Oh my God, if I take you to the girl will you promise to shut up and leave me alone?!”</p><p>“Deal!” Ann crowed, giving Sakamoto a thumbs-up and her most radiant smile.</p><p>“Hell, you’d probably have just followed me there anyway,” he muttered, stalking off once more.</p><p>Ann fell into step beside him, taking note of his limp. “So what’ve you been up to, besides ‘business’?” she asked, complete with air quotes. “I haven’t seen you since…” Ann trailed off, feeling a bit reluctant to mention his expulsion. Needling him for information was one thing, but she wasn’t cruel.</p><p>“Keepin’ busy,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “What about you? How’d Shujin end up?”</p><p>“I lived,” she said simply, trying not to frown.</p><p>They walked in silence for a moment, until Sakamoto deliberately scuffed a shoe across the pavement in the midst of a step. “I’m sorry about Suzui. I never got a chance t’ say so. Y’know, before I left. I know you two were friends.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Ann said. “We reconnected after high school,” she told him, though the extent of that particular understatement wasn’t something she was keen to share just yet, middle school acquaintances or not.</p><p>They took a turn through a narrower alley of the Yongen backstreets. Ann felt a brief pang of worry that Sakamoto might be leading her into some kind of trap, but shook off the thought. There was no need to be paranoid – yet – but she would stay alert in case he tried to take her down any dead ends.</p><p>“That’s good,” he replied.</p><p>“What about you?” she asked. “Keeping tabs on any old buddies besides Kurusu?”</p><p>“I told ya, I just see him once in a while. It ain’t like we’re friends. Right now, I’m just tryin’ t’ square a debt.” His persistent frown deepened. “I wonder if this still counts…” he added, softly enough that Ann was not sure if he’d meant for her to hear.</p><p>“What kind of debt?” she asked, unable to quash her curiosity.</p><p>“That bastard dropped the charges against me, after he got booked, y’know?”</p><p>Ann nodded, with a soft “Mmhmm,” of acknowledgement. At least in this context, there was no need to elaborate on which bastard he meant.</p><p>“When that happened, Shujin kinda had no choice but to offer to take me back. I threw it in their faces, ‘cuz I was a pretty dumb kid, right? But none of that woulda even happened, except for Kurusu.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” she wondered. It wasn’t like the juvenile delinquent would have had clout with the faculty, even if half the things they said about him in the hallways <em>had</em> been true.</p><p>“I got stupid angry, after Suzui jumped. Even if I knew enough to smell shit when I stepped in it, I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. I went to that bastard’s office. Kurusu followed me. I woulda thrown the punch, too, just like that bastard said, except…”</p><p>“He stopped you,” Ann realized, gaping in surprise. <em>We have that much in common, I guess.</em></p><p>Sakamoto nodded. After another turn down an even narrower alley – how much tinier could these streets get? – he pointed with a jerk of his chin. “There’s the place. ‘Leblank’ or somethin’. It’s foreign; you’d probably know better’n I would.”</p><p>They stepped up to a modest storefront. There was a large translucent window, behind a brick planter which hosted a few ferns that had seen better days. A chalkboard with a handwritten menu sat in a weather-beaten chair. There was a brick stoop, with a green welcome mat, the text upon it long since trampled into illegibility. The door had a red “Open” sign hanging behind clear glass panes. Well, not quite: one, right next to the handle, had a plastic bag taped in its place. Above it all, a red-and-white striped awning advertised “coffee&amp;curry / Leblanc” in English text.</p><p>Ann blinked. Not at the building; there was some personality there, to be sure, but she’d seen thousands of similar storefronts. What got her attention was not a permanent part of the exterior décor at all.</p><p>A familiar black cat was perched atop the chalkboard, blue eyes tracking their every step.</p><p>“C’mon,” said Sakamoto. He didn’t look enthusiastic in the least. “You wanted t’ get your money’s worth. Let’s go say hi.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- - <em>This Above All</em> - -</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>4/2/2026<br/></strong> <strong>Thursday<br/></strong> <strong>Morning</strong></p><p> </p><p>Akira was not accustomed to the sensation of waking up with another person in his arms.</p><p>He had always been something of a heavy sleeper, so awareness came in fits and starts. He was pleasantly warm, even accounting for his heavy blanket and the relative cool of his apartment for early spring. The other person underneath the comforter with him helped make sense of that. He was lying on his left side, his view of the room partially obscured by the top of a head of red hair. Sumire’s back was against his chest. Akira’s left arm went beneath her, his elbow slipped through the small gap between the mattress and her body above her waist. His right arm rested around the other side of her stomach, the bare skin of his forearm across the fabric of her T-shirt. Owing to the limited space, their legs and feet had become something of a tangle overnight.</p><p>Akira then realized what had brought him to wakefulness. His right hand was held in Sumire’s left, palm to palm, their fingers intertwined. Her right hand slowly caressed the back and knuckles of his, alternating between the smooth stroke of petting fingertips and gentle brush of blunt nails.</p><p>It was astonishing how well the seeming mismatched pieces of two different human beings could fit together. In other words, Akira might not have been accustomed to waking up like this… but he decided he could get used to it. He squeezed Sumire’s hand.</p><p>“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I wake you?”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Akira replied. He could just make out the clock on the other side of the room, hanging on the wall above the stairway down to the café. It was a little before six. “How did you sleep?”</p><p>“Better than I expected.”</p><p>He breathed a laugh against her hair. “Me, too.”</p><p>When shopping for a new bed and mattress, Sojiro had joked about getting him a queen-size for his new “bachelor pad.” With the eclectic mix of petulance, ignorance, and moral certainty only a freshly-independent teenager could manage, Akira had insisted on a twin. It had been easier for them to get it into the attic, to be sure. But right now, he didn’t know quite how to classify the limitations of the sleeping arrangements. There were certainly both pros and cons.</p><p>Sumire was wearing the oversized T-shirt Akira had retrieved for her the previous night, and if he wasn’t mistaken by the ridge of elastic he could feel around her waist, also a pair of his boxers. Her long legs were bare against his sweatpants… and Akira decided he really needed to stop that line of thought right there.</p><p>He shifted, making an aborted attempt to begin to untangle the Gordian knot they’d made of their legs. Their bare feet brushed against each other, causing Sumire to giggle.</p><p>“Stop that. My feet are ticklish.”</p><p>Akira grinned at the back of her head. “Oh? Anywhere else?” He pinched her waist between his elbows.</p><p>She twisted in place, keeping their hands together but rolling onto her back, enough to look at him face-to-face. She smiled back at him, shaking her head. “Just there.”</p><p>In spite of their positions, knotted and jumbled and not at all a textbook picture of comfort, Akira felt no need to move. He stared, and did not feel the least ashamed. “I think I’d like to kiss you now.”</p><p>Her eyes were already half-lidded. “I think I’d like that, too.”</p><p>Akira’s neck craned forward to close the gap, his own eyes drifting shut. It was neither frenzied nor passionate. Not overwhelming or explosive, and the Earth did not burst open to swallow them both. What it was, was warm. A bit awkward, perhaps. A little dry. Lingering.</p><p>It was a kiss. And as far as Akira was concerned, it was the perfect way to start the day.</p><p>He pulled away, eyes fluttering open precisely in time with hers. He smiled anew. “I’ve wanted to do that for…” <em>Two days? Six months? Ten years?</em> If he was being honest, none of those would be a lie. But he settled on “…a while.”</p><p>She smiled back, biting her bottom lip. “Really?”</p><p>He nodded, and smirked. “If I know my manga, this is the part where I’m supposed to ask if that was your first.”</p><p>She blushed, but shook her head. “Sorry to disappoint you.”</p><p>He chuckled, grinning widely enough to pinch the skin around his eyes. “I’m kidding. Just be warned, though, I am the jealous type.”</p><p>“Is that so?” she asked coyly. “Well, you don’t have to worry. It was a boy at the Kantō regional championships, the summer after I turned thirteen. We’d known each other from several training camps, and I suppose he was kind of cute. Mostly, it was the fact that we’d both just won first place in the individual all-around.” Her smile turned a little sad as her gaze drifted far away. “I don’t even remember his name, just that I told my sister right afterwards. She teased me about it for weeks.” She blinked, both her smile and her focus springing back. “What about you?”</p><p>“Me? Well, my story’s almost boring in comparison. It doesn’t even have the allure of the passion of youth.” He shrugged.</p><p>“Oh? Would it matter if I said that I’m the jealous type, too?” she asked, nudging him with an elbow.</p><p>“Perhaps,” he began, schooling away his smile. “She was a regular at Leblanc, you see. She showed up one rainy night, convinced it was all a dream…”</p><p>Her eyes went wide. “No. You mean…?”</p><p>He nodded, and didn’t bother hiding his unabashed grin. “I do.”</p><p>Sumire’s right hand covered her lips as she tried to stifle a gasp. “I… wow. That’s… unexpected.”</p><p>His grin faded, in spite of his best efforts. “Not disappointing, I hope?”</p><p>“No!” she reassured him hastily. “I mean, it’s not like I’m one to judge, with one kiss to my name in twelve years.”</p><p>“I suppose we’ll both have to learn as we go,” Akira decided, leaning forward to place a kiss against her hair.</p><p>Akira heard his phone give a buzz from the sill of the window above his bed, which served as his nightstand. With a few seconds of awkward contortions, he and Sumire managed to untangle themselves from one another. Akira sat up, pushing the comforter aside and reaching for his phone. There was a new text.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> WHAT THE HELL HAVE I MISSED?!</p><p> </p><p>Akira blinked. He knew her mics were only in Leblanc proper; he’d been pretty sure she was joking when she had asked, but he’d still drawn the line against her bugging his room. He had known she would be out cold most of the previous day, but before he could start to fill her in, he needed to know what she knew, first and foremost. He tapped out a reply.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> How far back have you caught up?</p><p> </p><p>He glanced at Sumire. She had sat up next to him, and was watching him with her head rested against her bent knees. “It’s Futaba,” he explained.</p><p>“She’s awake this early, too?”</p><p>“So it would seem,” he replied. It was easier than trying to describe Futaba’s sleeping habits without the help of a flow chart. His phone started buzzing again.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Woke up last night after you had already shut down. Figured it was just another day.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I didn’t start checking the recordings until an hour ago.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Listened to you and Yoshizawa’s heart-to-heart.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Nothing happened, before you ask.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Duh.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I wasn’t finished. You think I’d text all caps just for that?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> It’s not exactly news to me that you play RL full Paragon.</p><p> </p><p>“Akira-san, is she okay?” Sumire asked, concerned.</p><p>“Sorry, yes, she’s fine. It’s just…” He blinked, trying to process the situation from the perspective of someone who hadn’t known Futaba Sakura for ten years. “Right, I probably should have told you about this before, but… How much do you know about her?”</p><p>Sumire raised her head, eyebrows pinching in faint confusion. “Just what you and Sakura-san have said. She… doesn’t go out much?” She posed the question with the delicacy of one who knew they didn’t have all the facts, and didn’t want to seem rude.</p><p>Akira nodded. His phone was vibrating with new texts almost nonstop, but he ignored it for the moment. “That’s a start. She’s a bit of a tech wizard, and spends most of her time online.” He frowned. There wasn’t a good way to frame this with the time he had, but he could not in good conscience fail to say something to Sumire. “To put it simply, she listens in on the café,” he explained.</p><p>Her confused look deepened into worry. He could see her trying to think back through the last few days, perhaps even the past six months, to figure out just what that meant. “Oh… that’s…”</p><p>Akira placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a long story, but she doesn’t do it to be sinister. And she’s the only one who hears. It’s just her own best way of… hanging out, I guess.”</p><p>That seemed to soothe the worst of her apprehension. “I understand,” Sumire said, with a surprisingly firm nod. “It sounds like she has a lot to say,” she added, nodding at his still-buzzing phone. “Do you want me to let you two catch up?”</p><p>“If you don’t mind,” he replied apologetically. His phone vibrated again. “This could take a while.”</p><p>Sumire nodded, shuffling herself out from beneath the blankets. “If it’s all right with you, can I take a shower? I know the last couple of days have been a bit of a mess, to say the least, but I like to feel clean in the mornings. It helps me start the day.”</p><p>“Please feel free.” Akira smiled. “I won’t mind if you make yourself feel at home.”</p><p>Sumire blushed a little at that. “I… I’ll try. Thank you,” she said, rising from the bed.</p><p>To be honest, after the previous night, it felt like a relief to Akira just for her to ask for something for herself. No matter how insignificant it might seem.</p><p>As her boyfriend of nearly twenty-four hours, he permitted himself a half-second to appreciate the sight of her bare legs beneath her boxers before refocusing his attention as his phone buzzed yet again. Akira started catching up with Futaba’s texts.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Not like I expected you to make a move, but really, the couch?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> And she still made you breakfast.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> She may not know her own name, but she’s somehow still too good for this sinful Earth.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> But anyway.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> No, I was just a BIT more worried about the FUCKING BREAK-IN.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Mister Tsukasa is dead as soon as I have a last name.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I might just go ahead and bankrupt every Tsukasa in the prefecture just to be sure.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Maybe the country. Dunno yet.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Sakamoto I might spare. Depends.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> …Yoshizawa just said hello. To me. From inside Leblanc.</p><p> </p><p>It seemed that Akira had caught up.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> I do that all the time.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Yeah, but that’s you. Not even Sojiro would talk to me through the bugs like that.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I swear, you and this girl were custom-built for one another.</p><p><strong>Borerista: </strong>I’m glad you approve.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> You finally found your Kurus-tina, Aki-rin.</p><p> </p><p>Akira simultaneously groaned and felt himself blush at the re-emergence of his oldest nickname. Futaba was never going to let him live this one down. Of course, they had more urgent issues to contend with first.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> I think the True End will have to wait until after the whole extortion thing.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Killjoy.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> What are the odds that Sakamoto will come through?</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Not sure. Probabilities are more your thing.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Coin flip, then. If it’s tails, do you think Yoshizawa will let us pay?</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Us?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> What? Don’t tell me you think Sojiro won’t go for it.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> He started trying to set you two up before even me.</p><p> </p><p>Akira hadn’t exactly avoided thinking about it, but regardless of whether or not he was comfortable with wondering if his family could scrape together ¥100,000 at the drop of a hat, they had bigger problems. The racket was the most urgent of those, but even setting aside Yoshizawa’s rather vehement opposition to his first offer the other night, it wasn’t as though a winning lottery ticket would be the panacea to all their ills.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> I appreciate the thought, but even that just buys us time.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I’m okay with paying for some of that.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> We can argue Keynesian debt principles when potential rapists stop breaking Leblanc’s door.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Exactly. You heard Tsukasa. You think he’ll just go away?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I’ll make him, if I have to.</p><p><strong>Borerista:</strong> Yeah, every Tsukasa in the national directory, I know. But what if you can’t?</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Fine. Then, it depends on how straight Sakamoto was shooting.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Mafia isn’t going to want to make noise they don’t have to. Bad for business.</p><p> </p><p>He had to admit Futaba’s point, there. If he could stay paid up, the gang might at least <em>discourage</em> Tsukasa from trying anything else…</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Yoshizawa’s done in the bathroom. She just asked me to tell you she’s coming up.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Marry that girl, or I will.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> BBL.</p><p> </p><p>Akira snorted out a laugh just in time to hear Sumire’s footsteps on the stairs. She had changed back into the same jeans from her outfit the day before, though she had a clean, dark green T-shirt on, and the white button-down was still bundled in her arms. Her hair was still down. It had been ever since the night she'd arrived, when Akira had told her he liked it that way. He had not failed to take note.</p><p>“Akira-san? Did you have enough time to text?”</p><p>He locked his phone and placed it back on the windowsill. “For now. She can be pretty chatty. She also wanted to say thank you, in her own way.”</p><p>Sumire tilted her head. “To me? For what?”</p><p>“Saying hello,” he explained. “She’s under the impression that we’re praiseworthy for being willing to talk to her aloud.”</p><p>“It only seemed polite,” she replied. “Now that I know, I mean.”</p><p>He shrugged. “That’s basically what I said, but she truly does march to the beat of a different drum.”</p><p>“That’s not a bad thing,” she replied reasonably. “Has she always been that way?”</p><p>Akira nodded. “For as long as I’ve known her. She had a… rough childhood, and I think that’s more than a little to blame.”</p><p>“It’s none of my business to ask.”</p><p>He shrugged. “Nor mine to tell, but I think she’d be okay if I gave you the abridged version.” He figured that much of an explanation was a fair trade for the nonconsensual eavesdropping, which the standard Leblanc customer didn’t even rate.</p><p>Sumire shook her head. “Wait, just a moment.”</p><p>Akira blinked as she went back down the steps. Half a minute later, his phone buzzed with a new text.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> She’s cool. You tell her, I don’t want to spam her phone like a creep.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Just…</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Don’t make me sound too lame, okay?</p><p> </p><p>If Akira wasn’t already in love, that probably would have done the trick.</p><p>Sumire returned, taking a seat on the couch. “Did she text you again?”</p><p>He nodded, swallowing against a sudden thickness in his throat. “She asked me to make her look good. I’ll do my best.”</p><p>She smiled a little at that. “I can hear how much you love her, just by how you talk. I don’t think she has anything to worry about.”</p><p>“Futaba deserves that much, at least,” Akira agreed. Taking a moment to sort out his thoughts, he took a deep breath, and began.</p><p>“Until she was twelve, it’s a pretty simple story. She was a bright kid, and according to Sojiro, almost exactly like her mom. Crazy smart, emphasis on both, but all in a good way. Her mom wasn’t married, but they loved each other a lot.”</p><p>“I know Sakura-san adopted her. He…” she trailed off, seeming unsure how to phrase what she wanted to ask.</p><p>“Sojiro was kind of an honorary uncle when Futaba was growing up, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Sumire nodded, making a soft sound of understanding, and Akira went on. “I think he and Futaba’s mom both carried a bit of a torch for each other, to be honest, but that’s a different story altogether.</p><p>“When Futaba was thirteen, though, her mom died. It was ruled a suicide, and it may even still say so on her death certificate, but she was one of the earliest victims of a mental shutdown.”</p><p>Sumire held a hand in front of her open mouth. “Oh, no. But why?”</p><p>“Why the coverup?” Akira asked. She nodded. “We honestly aren’t sure. The simplest explanation is the fact that the phenomenon had really just begun. People didn’t know what mental shutdowns and psychotic breakdowns looked like, yet.</p><p>“Futaba’s mom worked for the government, researching something called cognitive psience,” Akira went on. “If you dig deep enough online, you can find plenty of conspiracy theories linking the field to what’s been happening. But after she died, all her research was seized. Futaba remembers some of it, papers and books she snuck looks at, but not enough to say for certain.”</p><p>“She does?” Sumire wondered. “But wouldn’t she have been just a child?”</p><p>“Futaba has a perfect memory, or something close enough to count. She remembers everything she sees or hears. Except for the time around the accident, but that’s probably for the best.”</p><p>“The accident? You mean with her mother?”</p><p>Akira nodded his head, clasping his hands between his legs. “Yeah. She was right there when her mom died. She just wandered into traffic, like she wasn’t even aware. Futaba tried to stop her, but… well, you don’t want to hear the details. Futaba only remembers bits and pieces, from the moment of the accident to a few weeks afterwards.”</p><p>“That’s horrible. I can’t even…” Sumire shuddered.</p><p>“They supposedly found a suicide note when they were confiscating documents in her office and home. It blamed Futaba. For her death, her lack of progress in her research… For everything. Sojiro only spoke of it to me the once. We’re both glad Futaba doesn’t remember that. They…” Akira’s fists clenched over his knees as he sat on the edge of his bed. “They read the note. To her mom’s family. To Sojiro. To <em>Futaba</em>, while she was lying in her own hospital bed.”</p><p>Sumire stood from the couch, and sat back down at his side. She placed a hand on top of his. “That’s… monstrous. Why would anyone do such a thing?”</p><p>“We don’t know. Maybe they just didn’t care.” Akira shook his head. “It didn’t get much prettier, after that. Futaba was passed around between her relatives for a couple years, never anywhere for more than a few months at a time. After the note, they… didn’t treat her well.” He grimaced at the understatement, but refused to dwell. “Sojiro stepped in as soon as he found out and… Well, the rest is history.” There might have been happier times to come, but there were also parts of the story that were not Akira’s to tell, even with Futaba’s consent.</p><p>They were silent for several minutes. Akira calmed down, with the help of a soothing hand atop his. Sumire seemed to be trying to process it all. She eventually broke the lull, with a question he did not expect.</p><p>“Did I… ever tell you how my sister died?”</p><p>He froze. “No,” he said. Akira glanced up at her profile, not daring to move any more than that.</p><p>“That March, just before we turned fifteen, she… Well, like you said about Futaba’s mother…” Her face contorted. She seemed to be struggling to form the proper words. “She just… ran out into the street. I can’t help but wonder, after what you said… Do you think…?”</p><p>Akira had no idea how to even begin to answer that question. From what he and Futaba had been able to determine, Sumire Yoshizawa’s idyllic delusion had transposed her own existence with that of her sister Kasumi’s, right up to the moment when she had died. Obviously, neither twin had suffered a mental shutdown, but if what she was saying was true… If Sumire truly had run out into the street as she described, then that meant…</p><p>The silence was suddenly unbearable. “I don’t know,” Akira managed to say, his voice a hollow croak.</p><p>“Yeah,” the warm, thoughtful, selfless young woman sitting beside him replied. “I guess I don’t, either.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- - <em>This Above All</em> - -</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>4/2/2026</strong><br/><strong>Thursday<br/></strong> <strong>Daytime</strong></p><p> </p><p>Akira took his turn in the shower a short time later. It served as much to buy him space to think as it did a marked return to his own preference for morning routine. By the time he was clean and dressed, he at least felt capable of speaking normally to Sumire once again.</p><p>Beyond crises of existence and identity, there was a host of simple logistical questions that would need answered, and soon, if they both wanted the current arrangements to progress in any way, shape, or form. It was one thing for Sumire to borrow his shower and a place to sleep for a couple of days, but even in the face of desperation, Akira knew that it was unsustainable. She deserved more.</p><p>Akira was happy to offer her anything within his power and means, but just wanting to help Sumire wasn’t enough. She needed her own clothes that fit. Her own toiletries. Her own possessions and keepsakes. Her own space. If that space was here, with him? Akira would be overjoyed, but he wasn’t about to force the decision upon her, one way or another. She’d suffered enough of that.</p><p>If her tenancy at her apartment could be salvaged, and that was her choice, Akira would not think to object. If she would let him, he’d pay her back rent himself, or at least assume responsibility for as much of the outstanding balance as he could. Of course even the first part of that equation couldn’t be solved, let alone the rest, until they addressed the problem of the mafia’s extorted debt.</p><p>On Wednesday Sumire had called her students, those few she had, to let them know classes were cancelled. She had been forced to do the same again today. Until they heard an answer from Sakamoto, for good or ill, she couldn’t risk going to her studio. As the previous morning had proven, even staying in Leblanc wasn’t perfectly safe.</p><p>Still, much as they had the day before, the two of them opened the café and went to work. There were no breakings-in, and Akira was relieved to see Sumire back to something much more like her usual self. She was still every bit as helpful, that was to be sure. But there was also depth to her smiles, and light in her carmine eyes. For an entire morning, they were almost… content.</p><p>During the lull after the last of the breakfast customers had left, the bell above the door rang. Then entered one blonde head… and one not.</p><p>“Yo,” Sakamoto grunted, with a desultory wave.</p><p>“Hello!” The second figure was a woman who wore a beaming smile, and looked strangely familiar. “Is that cat outside yours?” she wondered.</p><p>Prince must have still been lounging around. She wasn’t the first person to ask that, even just today. “As much as any cat can be, I suppose,” Akira replied, from his spot behind the register. “Welcome to Leblanc.” He sent Sakamoto a questioning look.</p><p>“She followed me here, and no, I don’t want t’ keep her.”</p><p>“Sorry! I bullied him a bit,” the woman said. Her tone and smile were both chipper. It might have seemed artificial, if she didn’t look so honest about it all. “I’m actually here looking for you.”</p><p>She was looking straight at Sumire, who was at Akira's side behind the counter, topping off the coffee beans in the glass jars beside the public phone. The redhead frowned. “Me?” she asked, a little warily.</p><p>“Yep! Sumire-san, right?”</p><p>Akira tensed. Truth be told, that was the first time he’d ever heard anyone else open a conversation with her proper name.</p><p>“Yes, I’m Kasumi Yoshizawa. I’m sorry, do I know you?”</p><p>Sakamoto frowned, glancing between the two women. “Wait, didn’t she say…?” he muttered, but the newcomer talked right over him.</p><p>“Sorry again, that was rude of me, wasn’t it? My name is Ann Takamaki. I work at SNN…” That explained the familiarity, but she wasn’t quite done. “With your dad.”</p><p>Sumire gasped. “My father? Oh! Have you seen him? How is he?” she asked, all in a rush.</p><p>Takamaki blinked. Akira wouldn’t claim to know his old high school classmate simply because he recognized her once in a while on TV, but he certainly didn’t see her that taken aback when she was conducting interviews. “He’s fine,” she said, after a beat. “He’s who asked me to find you.”</p><p>Sumire seemed torn, her expression flitting back and forth between relief and anxiety. “Find me? Oh, no. I know I hadn’t…” she trailed off. Akira went to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. Sumire gave him a tremulously grateful smile. “I haven’t spoken to him for… oh, I know just how terrible it sounds, but I don’t even remember how long it’s been.”</p><p>“He’s not mad, or anything like that,” Takamaki offered, taking a few steps around Sakamoto to stand across the counter from Sumire. “He’s just worried. He had no way to contact you.”</p><p>Sumire’s brows knitted in confusion. “But… Oh!” she gasped. “I switched phones… early last year? Has it really been that long? My number… Changed… Oh, dear.”</p><p>Takamaki waved both hands in front of her. “It’s okay! God, you have no idea all the ways I was expecting this conversation to go, but this wasn’t even one of them, you know?”</p><p>“I can’t believe I made him worry so much that he’d send someone like you looking for me, Takamaki-san!” Sumire exclaimed. “This is embarrassing. I feel so ashamed.”</p><p>“Someone like her?” Sakamoto asked. “Wait, do you know her, too?”</p><p>“Honestly, only a little,” she admitted. “I didn’t even recognize her on TV until Akira-san pointed her out to me the other day.”</p><p>Sakamoto boggled. “Wait. Yer on <em>TV?!</em>”</p><p>Takamaki looked like she wanted to put her head through the counter, and only settled for her palm out of politeness.</p><p>Akira empathized. He arched a brow at Sakamoto. “You don’t watch the news a lot, do you?” he asked.</p><p>The other man frowned. “Well, at least now I know why she asked me the same damn thing,” he shot back, jerking a thumb at Takamaki.</p><p>“Your hair was so pretty, too,” Sumire said, almost too quietly to hear. When all three of the others looked at her, she covered her mouth with her fingertips, emitting a faint <em>eep!</em> “Did I say that out loud?”</p><p>Takamaki smiled at her. “It’s okay. Thank you.”</p><p>The younger woman gathered herself, shaking her head. “Still, how did you even find me?”</p><p>Takamaki’s smile widened into a grin. “Your website, of course!”</p><p>Sumire’s expression was utterly blank. “I have a website?”</p><p>It was Takamaki’s turn to look stunned. “Um, yes? For Yoshizawa Gymnastics and Dance Studio,” she said, pulling out her phone.</p><p>All at once, there was the sound of three phones vibrating, and from Takamaki’s hand came a cheerful <em>ding!</em></p><p>Akira checked. It appeared he had been added to a new chat group.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Sorry, that website was me.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I knew you were looking for students and thought you could use a hand.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Happy belated birthday?</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, Alibaba? I know that name…” Takamaki said.</p><p>“Effin’ Alibaba!” Sakamoto shouted, looking furiously at the device in his hand. “How the hell did you get in my phone?!”</p><p>Akira bit back a laugh as he read the next volley of texts.</p><p>           </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I sniffed all your phones’ MAC addresses as soon as you hit Leblanc’s wireless.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> The rest is just boring details.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> And if you know what’s best for you, Ryuji Sakamoto…</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> You will forget you knew I was here.</p><p> </p><p>A veritable avalanche of pictures, audio files, and text flooded the chat. It included everything from a menagerie of still snapshots of Sakamoto from every networked camera in Yongen, to his current personal address and 12-digit national identification number.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> I think I’ve got you for counts of intimidation, extortion, racketeering, and conspiracy at least.</p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> And if you want to go nuclear, those checks to your mom? They’ll get her locked up, too.</p><p> </p><p>“You leave my mom outta this!” Sakamoto roared, pointing a finger at the screen of his phone.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Just making sure we’re clear.</p><p> </p><p>“Sakamoto, what the hell have you been doing?!” Takamaki gasped, alternatively thumbing through the flood of incriminating evidence and glancing up at the bleach-blonde with apparent disbelief. “I figured you were into something shady when you tried to brush me off, but God! This…” She looked like her turquoise eyes were about to roll right out of her head. “How… How has none of this been <em>reported on?!</em>”</p><p> </p><p><strong>Alibaba:</strong> Enough money in the right places, in ways that even I can’t track all by myself.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s…!” Takamaki’s face fell, as she grabbed a handful of her hair. “God, that makes so much sense.” She jerked, glanced at her own wrist, and groaned. “Damnit.”</p><p>Akira had already caught a glimpse of a familiar golden shade beneath the black. He had stared at it for the better part of a year once, after all. “Wait. It’s not…?” he started to ask.</p><p>“No!” Takamaki grumbled. She screwed her eyes shut, and removed her wig with a single, solid yank.</p><p>“Oh!” Sumire gasped.</p><p>Akira blinked.</p><p>For his part, Sakamoto looked like someone had just brained him with one of Leblanc’s stools.</p><p>“Ow,” the newly-revealed still-blonde mumbled. “I always forget about that pin…” She dropped the wig to the floor in disgust, and began playing with the assortment of clips in her hair. With one hand still occupied with her phone, the process did not look easy.</p><p>“Let me help,” Sumire offered, already leaning across the counter.</p><p>“Could you, please? Thanks.” Takamaki took a seat on the nearest stool, presenting the other woman with the back of her head. “Can you get those? I did not think this cunning plan through.”</p><p>Sakamoto picked his jaw up from the floor long enough to stare at Akira. “What… what just happened?”</p><p>“I’m revising some of my personal preconceptions,” Akira admitted. “As for you, I think you’re just dense.”</p><p>The other man chuckled. “Hell, nice to see at least one thing’s still the same after walkin’ through that damn door.”</p><p>“They might be a while, there,” Akira observed, as layers of long, natural blonde began to slowly unfurl. “In the meantime, do you have any news? I see you’re still breathing, at least.”</p><p>Contrary to his response to Akira’s sarcastic ribbing, that simple question made Sakamoto scowl. “Yeah. ‘fraid I do.”</p><p>Akira raised an eyebrow. “It can’t be that bad. You’re here alone, after all.” Futaba would have mentioned if any Yongen cameras had caught a mob of mobsters gathering outside Leblanc. It was obvious that she was paying very close attention to the café at the moment.</p><p>“Maybe,” Sakamoto replied, looking like he’d gnawed on something sour. “I got good news, and bad news, I guess.”</p><p>“And I hate guessing games,” Akira countered, a chill entering his tone. “Spit it out.”</p><p>“Good news first, then,” the other man said, with a sideways glance. “If you want to trade your strike, you get two weeks.”</p><p>Akira exhaled, long and slow. That… wasn’t as bad as it could have been.</p><p>“Wait, what’s this about?” Takamaki said. She barged back into the conversation, hands still combing through some tangles in her hair.</p><p>“Akira-san, did I hear that right?” Sumire asked. “He said two weeks?”</p><p>Sakamoto nodded. “Yeah. The big man said that’s what his strike’s worth, if he wants t’ give it t’ you.”</p><p>“What’s the bad news?” Akira asked. Coming to his side, Sumire grasped his hand. He squeezed it gently, but didn’t take his eyes from Sakamoto.</p><p>The bleach blonde muttered something foul under his breath. “Yer not gonna like this.”</p><p>“I don’t particularly enjoy being extorted in the first place,” Akira snapped. “Just tell us.”</p><p>“The big man also said if you do, you get…” his lip curled in an unpleasant expression, “the ‘couples discount.’ Two weeks, but at the end? It’ll cost ya two hundred grand.” Sakamoto suddenly found the front window of Leblanc terribly interesting, not meeting their eyes. “Each.”</p><p>“Ryuji.” Takamaki growled the man’s given name alone, in a way that no one confused for closeness or respect. “What the hell is going on?”</p><p>Sumire looked as though the hand held in Akira’s was the only thing keeping her upright. “I can’t,” she whispered. “There’s no way. I can’t, and even if I could, I can’t ask you to…” she looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes.</p><p>In a gesture that would make Futaba wince in sympathetic pain to see, Takamaki slammed her phone down on the counter. The crack of plastic on hardwood was followed by a single, nondescript chime. “What is going on?!” she demanded. “Tell me, or so help me, Sakamoto…!”</p><p>“I work for the effin’ mafia!” he shouted right back at her. “There, are ya happy, Takamaki? I spend my days stickin’ people up, and that’s when I don’t have to rough ‘em up, too!”</p><p>“What the hell?” she snapped. “I know it’s been ten years, but you are not <em>at all</em> the same guy who begged me for cash because he couldn’t afford to get his mom a souvenir.”</p><p>“No, I ain’t,” he growled. “Now? I’m a two-bit thug, wreckin’ the lives of honest folks.”</p><p>“But why?!”</p><p>“<em>Why?!</em>” Sakamoto barked. “Because Junya Kaneshiro thinks all of Tokyo is his own personal goddamn bank!”</p><p>Beneath Takamaki’s hand, there was a rapid series of electronic warbles, followed by the vaguely indifferent tones of a synthesized feminine voice.</p><p>“<em>Input accepted. Searching for route to destination</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>